The Case of the Memento Mori Murderer
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Perry is abducted by a vengeful young man and his unknown accomplice. Hamilton Burger and Lt. Tragg join Della and Paul in a desperate attempt to find him before it's too late. And what bearing does an unsolved 80-year-old mystery have on the case?
1. Vengeance

**Perry Mason**

**The Case of the Memento Mori Murderer**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters from the show are not mine. All other characters and the story are! Delighted with the response to my first _Perry_ mystery, and armed with more ideas, I have decided to immediately begin another. I hope this one will be enjoyed too. I leave a little reminder that I've moved the time period to the present day, but I don't think it changes the feel of the story.**

**Chapter One**

The judge's gavel banged on the desk to solemnize the adjournment of court for the day. Both the defense and the prosecution began gathering their papers into their respective briefcases. The defendant stood by her attorney, watching for a moment before the bailiff came to guide her away. He only glanced up for a moment before returning his attention to his belongings.

"Perry."

Now he gave his full attention to his secretary as she spoke. Seeing him looking to her, she went on.

"I can hardly believe she was actually guilty. She seemed so sincere and frightened in the office."

"She _was_ frightened, Della," Perry said. "She knew she would receive the death penalty if her crime was proved." His eyes darkened. "But she was the furthest thing from sincere. She lied to us right from the start."

"Burger's probably ecstatic," Paul muttered, glancing at the district attorney's table. "It's not every day he wins his case if you're the defense."

Perry glanced over too. Mr. Burger's expression was impassive. "A young girl's been sentenced to her execution, Paul," he returned. "Mr. Burger will treat the matter with the seriousness it warrants."

Closing his briefcase, Mr. Burger stepped away from the table and approached his rival. "You made a good defense, Perry," he said. "I'm sorry it turned out this way."

"So am I, Hamilton," Perry said. "We truly believed Gladys was innocent. But the truth had to come out. You put together an excellent case to discover it."

Paul cast an unsettled look over his shoulder. "I think Gladys's boyfriend isn't about to forgive either of you," he said. "If looks could kill. . . ."

Perry and Burger both followed his gaze. Trevor Bartlett had already weaved his way to the door. He stood there, his eyes narrowed and dark as he looked to Perry. Then, with a flourish, he was out the door and gone.

"That look positively gave me the chills," Paul proclaimed.

Della looked concerned too. "Perry, he looked like he hated you," she said.

"Well, you can't blame him," Perry said. "I wasn't able to get his girlfriend off."

Hamilton frowned, watching as the door slowly closed. "Even after he learned that she really did kill both old man Carter and his wife in cold blood, it didn't change his feelings for her one bit," he remarked.

"Love is strange like that sometimes," Perry said.

"With a woman like that, it has to be blind love," Paul said, disturbed.

Perry headed for the gate. "Well, I'm sorry for him, but this is for the best. He isn't the first person to give me such a piercing glower." He looked back. "Good afternoon, Hamilton."

Mr. Burger nodded. "Goodbye, Perry," he returned. "Della, Paul."

Della and Paul bade him goodbye as well before following Perry out of the courtroom. Mr. Burger sighed, watching them go, and then moved to leave himself.

"It's cases like these that have threatened to completely jade me over the years."

He glanced over to Lieutenant Tragg, who was frowning deeply while reaching for the swinging gate.

"Sometimes I wonder if we're too quick to believe that some of Mason's clients are guilty," Tragg went on. "But we always try to be thorough in our investigations. And we turn up plenty of evidence against them."

Burger walked with him to the doors. "Yet in this case, there was hardly any evidence at all," he remarked. "And this time, the girl _was_ guilty."

Her cold, matter-of-fact confession chilled him. She had only shown remorse and fear for the fact that she would die herself. As far as having murdered two good people, she could not care less.

"Perhaps sometimes there's too much evidence," Tragg said. "Mason's clients who are innocent often seem to have the misfortune of being deliberately framed. But no two cases are exactly alike."

"And we don't come across someone like Gladys Thorn every day," Burger said. "Thankfully." He pushed open the heavy door. "I'll buy you dinner."

Tragg looked to him. "Why thank you, Mr. Burger."

xxxx

The weeks passed, bringing other clients and other cases in their midst. With many other matters to devote attention to, thoughts of Gladys Thorn were soon pushed to the back burner.

Trevor Bartlett had not been heard from at all. Though Perry had tried more than once to contact him, Bartlett refused to respond. As far as Della was concerned, that was just as well. The look Bartlett had given Perry still unsettled her. Of course Perry could take care of himself, and she was likely worrying over nothing, but it still made her feel better for Perry to not have anything more to do with him.

Then Gladys was back to the forefront once more. The day of her execution dawned with the story plastered on the front page of every local newspaper. Her case was notorious due to the sheer barbarism of her crime and her attitude towards it.

Both Perry and Mr. Burger were hounded by reporters and interviewed. Perry had refused to continue representing Gladys once the truth came out, recommending instead for her to find other representation. Her current lawyer was also interviewed. He asserted that he was seeking a stay of execution, despite the fact that having it granted did not look likely to happen.

And it was not; that night at midnight, Gladys Thorn died by lethal injection for the premeditated, heinous murders of Robert and Margaret Carter.

At 12:01 A.M., angry and hurting, Trevor Bartlett began plotting his revenge in full-force.

xxxx

"Della?"

Della came through the open door into Perry's office. "What is it, Chief?" she greeted.

Perry was looking over a file open on his desk. "The Travis case was never solved, was it?" he said. "You remember—it was that grisly murder of a teenage boy five years ago."

"I remember," Della said in surprise. "What makes you think about that now?"

Perry frowned, leaning back in the chair. "It just occurred to me today, when I was reading in the morning paper about Gladys's execution last night. Some of the minute details of that case, and the crime scene, were noticeably similar to the Carter case. And when I took out the photograph of the Carter crime scene I noticed something else. If I can verify it with the Travis crime scene, I may have something uniquely strange enough that even Mr. Burger will see the validity of attempting to connect the cases."

Della's eyes widened. "You mean you're wondering if Gladys Thorn could have killed that boy Travis?"

Perry closed the folder. "It's a possibility, at least," he said. "Unfortunately, now it's too late to ask her."

Della glanced at the cover; it was the Carter casefile. "Do we even know if Gladys knew him?" she wondered.

"We don't," Perry said. "It's possible that she could have told someone, such as Trevor Bartlett."

Della frowned. "I don't like the thought of you trying to talk to him again," she said. "He doesn't want anything to do with you."

"I know," Perry nodded. "I'm sure he wouldn't tell me anything. I might tell my suspicions to Lieutenant Tragg and see if he'll try to question Trevor."

"Would he buy it?" Della was not sure. It was hard to say when the police would listen to one of Perry's ideas and when they would not.

Perry reached for the telephone. "There's just one way to find out."

xxxx

Hamilton Burger sighed tiredly, leaning back as he let his hands drop from the keyboard in front of him. It had been very late before he had ever gone to sleep last night, as he had been interviewed again following Gladys Thorn's execution. Today he had a heavy caseload; he had been in court twice and had to go back again before the close of the workday. And now Perry Mason was raising questions about Gladys Thorn's possible involvement in an unsolved murder from five years ago.

The similarities between the crime scenes were, he had to admit, strange. It could be coincidental, or maybe even Gladys had heard about the Travis crime and had decided to craft the Carters' murders in the same vein—yet there was still the nagging issue of certain odd and unique details about both scenes that were not commonly known and managed to be strikingly harmonious. In the end, it was that element that had made him and Lieutenant Tragg curious enough to start digging deeper.

He stared blankly at the digital copy of the Ben Travis case on the monitor. The family deserved closure; they had been devastated following the gruesome murder of that boy. Still, he hated for them to be dragged into this before there was even anything concrete to show them. They had been trying to move on; now they would have to relive the horror and the pain as they were questioned at length on whether Ben Travis had known Gladys Thorn.

A sharp knock on the door brought him to attention. "What is it?" he called.

The door swung open and deputy D.A. Sampson leaned into the room. "Mr. Burger, Lieutenant Tragg's on his way over," he announced in his customary, blustering way. "I just heard it from Miss Miller. Since I was coming to see you anyway, she asked me to pass along the news."

Burger nodded. "Alright. Thank you, Sampson." He lowered the lid of the laptop computer. "What was it you wanted to see me about?"

Never hesitant, Sampson plunged right on. "Well, to be honest, Mr. Burger, I was wondering why you're going along with this idea of Mr. Mason's," he said.

Burger suddenly felt more tired than ever. "I wouldn't, except for the fact that there are unique similarities between the crime scenes," he said. "It's true that it could be coincidental, but it was strange enough to give me just a shadow of a doubt. Look." He took out two photographs from the hard copies of the Travis and Carter casefiles and set them on the desk. "These glasses on the tables in the background. At both of the crime scenes, they were arranged in a way that could loosely spell 'Fin' if looked at from a certain angle. No one investigating the Carter case remembered about the glasses in the Travis case. It was a throwaway detail long forgotten in five years. They didn't pay the glasses any heed until Mason pointed it out today."

Sampson came over and peered at the photographs. "It could mean nothing," he said. Nevertheless, the interest was sparked in his eyes.

"I know it could mean nothing," Burger said. "You have to use some imagination to even see the wording. But it's our job to investigate." He placed the pictures back in their separate folders. "Mr. Mason has some wild ideas, it's true. And I don't agree with a lot of his methods. However, you have to remember, Sampson—he's not our enemy. We're both working on the same goal of reaching the truth. When there's any reason to believe he might have something, I'm willing to listen." He shook his head. "Glasses set out to spell words aren't something you see every day."

Sampson stepped back. "I understand, sir," he said. "And it is strange, I admit that. But what connection could Gladys Thorn have possibly had with Ben Travis?"

"Maybe Lieutenant Tragg will be able to tell us that," Burger answered.

xxxx

Tragg arrived several minutes later. By that point Sampson had needed to return to his office, so Mr. Burger was alone when the knock came at the door. "Come in," he called for the second time in an hour.

Tragg entered, shutting the door behind him. From his grim expression, it was hard to tell how the interview had gone.

"What happened?" Burger queried.

Tragg let out an exasperated sigh. "Something isn't right, I can tell you that. Bartlett got the oddest expression when we showed him the pictures depicting the glasses. Then he said, 'So you finally discovered them,' with a mocking sort of sneer."

"But he didn't admit that Gladys had put them there," Burger concluded.

"He certainly didn't," Tragg said. "And no amount of questioning could make him talk further. He only said 'What does it even matter now that she's dead?'" He came over and sank into a chair near the desk. "Telling him that Travis's family deserved closure meant absolutely nothing to him. Neither did telling him that I could get a warrant out for his arrest, on the grounds of withholding information in a murder."

Burger set his pen down in exasperation. "Well, I guess at least we can decide that the glasses really were spelling 'Fin'," he said in annoyance. "Since Bartlett acted like they were important."

Tragg nodded. "It must be meant as some kind of message of death," he said. "A notation on their lives being finished."

"_Fin_ as in _end_," Burger mused. "You're probably right." He frowned. "Gladys Thorn had a sick sense of humor."

Tragg fully concurred.

xxxx

Perry's eyes narrowed as he approached his apartment late that night. Something was not right; he could sense it. He reached for the doorknob. It turned easily in his hand; the door was already unlocked. And he had certainly not left it like that.

Before he could make a motion to let it go it flew open, sending him stumbling in shock into the room. He looked up with a start. Trevor Bartlett was glowering at him from the other side of the door. Standing near the end table was another man, one whom Perry did not recognize. He was holding a gun directly at the attorney.

"Let go of the knob and close the door," Trevor barked.

Perry straightened, angry. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. He kept his hand on the knob. If something were to happen, he hoped that the other residents of the building would hear and call the authorities.

The unknown man clicked off the safety. "Do what Trevor tells you," he growled.

"You're trespassing in my apartment," Perry said, looking from him to Trevor. "You don't have any rights here."

"That gun gives us our rights," Trevor said.

"Trevor, Gladys confessed to killing two people in cold blood," Perry said, his tone clipped. "I wasn't going to try getting her off under those circumstances. If it had been self-defense it would have been different."

"I don't care!" Trevor shot back. "I loved her and now she's dead. And you're going to pay for it."

"What are you going to do?" Perry tensed, on guard. "Is your assassin intending to kill me? That won't solve anything."

"No." Trevor shook his head, stepping away from the door. "No, it wouldn't, not like that. I don't want you to die, Mason. Not until I've completely broken you down."

"Trevor, you're making a mistake, a grave mistake."

A silent bullet sailed past Perry's ear. He turned to look as it embedded itself in the wall. The unknown man sneered, cocking his smoking gun.

A bullet from another direction tore into Perry's side. He gasped in stunned pain, clutching at the wound as he doubled over. Trevor had a gun out now as well. He smirked at Perry, keeping it leveled at him.

"You fell for the distraction, Mason," he said. "You shouldn't have done that."

Perry's eyes narrowed. Pushing back the pain he lunged, hoping to catch Trevor off-guard. They crashed to the floor, struggling over the gun. Perry snatched the younger man's wrist, wrenching the gun away from him. Trevor grimaced, tearing at Perry's clothes with his free hand.

Without warning something hard came down on Perry's head once, twice. He stiffened for only a brief moment. Then he fell forward, across Trevor.

As he went down, in his fading vision he caught sight of his coffee table.

All of his glasses had been set out in a particular formation.

_Fin._


	2. Apartment

**Chapter Two**

Mrs. Joyce Manning sashayed out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open. With a hurried glance at her watch she dug into her purse, searching for her apartment key.

An open door out of the corner of her eye brought her attention elsewhere. Just across from her, another apartment was wide open—and empty.

She blinked in surprise. That was Perry Mason's apartment. And it was not like him to go away and leave a broad invitation to intruders. In fact, it was not like him to stay home and leave a broad invitation to intruders.

The time forgotten, she ventured closer. "Hello?" she called. "Mr. Mason?"

Ominous red stains on the floor caught her eye and she gasped in horror. Something was wrong, very wrong.

She dug into her purse again, this time for her phone. With shaking, manicured hands she drew it out and dialed. "Hello? Police?" she greeted, her voice trembling as well. "I think someone's been hurt, maybe even killed."

xxxx

Della sighed as she picked up her coat from the back of her couch. It had been another long day and night, this time working on the possible connections between the Travis and Carter cases. At last Perry had determined that nothing more could be done that night. He had brought her home some time ago and she had been relaxing with a bubble bath and then a guilty pleasure dessert from the freezer. Now, once she hung up her coat, she had every intention of going to bed.

The knock on her door froze her in her tracks. That was strange; who would be visiting at this hour? Still holding her coat, she hurried over. "I'm coming," she called.

Her eyes widened in shock when she opened the door. Lieutenant Tragg was standing there, looking grim. "Lieutenant," she gasped. "What is it?"

Tragg sighed. "I don't know exactly how to say this," he said. "Tonight we received a telephone call from a Mrs. Joyce Manning. Does that name ring a bell?"

Della blinked. "It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't place it," she said.

"She lives in Perry's apartment building," Tragg told her.

"Now I remember!" Della exclaimed. "She lives down the hall." She froze, the horrible realization dawning. "Lieutenant, has something happened to Perry?"

Tragg gave a heavy sigh. "She called because she found Perry's door wide open and no one home. There was blood on the carpet."

Della stared at him in utter horror. "And you haven't been able to reach Perry?"

"No," Tragg said. "We tried his office and his cellphone. Sergeant Brice is calling on Paul in case he went there."

"And you came here," Della concluded. She hesitated, wanting to ask further but dreading the answer. "Lieutenant, for you to be involved, does that mean you think . . ."

"I don't know what to think," Tragg interrupted. "But someone was definitely injured in Perry's apartment. And there's one other detail. I'm sure you remember Perry's theory about the Travis and Carter murders."

Della nodded. "Of course. But what has that got to do with this?"

"Della . . ." Tragg looked at her in all seriousness. "Someone removed Perry's drinking glasses from his cupboard and spread them out on his coffee table." Della gaped, afraid that now she knew where this was going. "In the Travis and Carter cases, the glasses were arranged to only loosely spell 'Fin' if studied from a certain angle. This time they were placed in a far tighter position. There was no mistaking their message."

Della snatched her purse and was out the door in the next instant, pulling it shut behind her. "I want to go there," she said.

"I'll drive you," Tragg said. "Sergeant Brice and Paul may already be there when we arrive."

"I knew Trevor Bartlett had it in for Perry after the trial!" Della cried as they headed down the hall. "He is your suspect, isn't he?"

"Of course," Tragg said. "We've been trying to contact him too, with no results."

Della's fears only grew.

xxxx

The walk down to Tragg's car, and the drive to the apartment complex, was largely spent in tense silence. Tragg clutched the steering wheel perhaps tighter than necessary. Della gripped her purse, her heart racing frantically.

She had been so afraid for Perry's safety when he had been threatened during the incident where Burger had been believed dead. But he had come through that experience without a scratch. He had even deduced that the criminals had never wanted him; they had only used him to draw out Mr. Burger, who had been in hiding.

Now, this time, it looked obvious as to what the criminals had wanted. Perry had been going directly home after driving Della back. But he was not home. And there was blood on the floor and a horrible message on the table.

A message that, in the past, had only been left with dead bodies.

Della's heart and soul rose in a silent, desperate prayer for Perry's safety.

Tragg pulled up in front of the building and parked. As he and Della hastened inside moments later, a voice suddenly called from behind them.

"Lieutenant Tragg! Della!"

Both stopped and turned. Della stared in amazement; Hamilton Burger was hurrying towards them, visibly worried. "Has there been any news?" he asked as he caught up.

"No, there hasn't," Tragg answered. He, Della noted, did not seem surprised to see the district attorney.

"I came as soon as I got your message," Burger told him.

Tragg nodded. "Good." He resumed his pace towards the doors, Della and Mr. Burger walking hurriedly alongside.

Several minutes later they were finally arriving on Perry's floor. Police and spectators were everywhere. Officers questioned the other residents while more combed Perry's apartment. Yellow crime scene tape was stretched across the open doorway.

Tragg held it up in order for Della and Mr. Burger to pass under. He followed, casting a grim eye about the scene. Following his gaze, Della could not refrain from a horrified gasp at the sight of the bloodstains.

"Della!"

Again Della looked up. This time it was Paul coming over, weaving his way around furniture and police. Della met him halfway, her emotions crumbling under the strain. "Oh Paul . . ." She drew her arms around him in a helpless embrace. "What happened? What are we going to do?"

Paul held her, gazing over her shoulder at the blood. "I don't know," he said. "I've called all of my men to start looking for Perry and Trevor Bartlett."

Della nodded. "He must have taken him," she berated. "But why? If he wanted to . . . to . . ." Her unfinished sentence hung in the air. _If he wanted to kill Perry, why didn't he just do it here?_ Or worse, _had_ he done it here and then taken Perry's body for some unthinkable, sick reason?

Paul looked as helpless as she felt. "Maybe he wants Perry alive for now," he said. "We can't give up."

Della pulled away, trying to compose herself. "I'm not going to," she said. She refused to believe Perry was dead. They had to be able to save him.

"He must have had at least one accomplice. There's no way Bartlett could have dragged Perry out of here all by himself."

Both of them snapped to attention at Mr. Burger's words. That was true, they realized.

"Who could it have been?" Della wondered.

"Almost anyone," Burger said, looking to her. "A family member, a friend, even just a mercenary."

Tragg nodded. "My men are going the rounds, questioning everyone they can find whom he knew." He glanced over idly at the flash from a police photographer's camera and then back again.

"Do you have any idea who was hurt?" Paul asked. It was likely that it was Perry, he knew, but there was always the chance that the blood belonged to Trevor or his mysterious accomplice.

"No," Tragg admitted. "But there's a bullet in the wall right over here." He turned, indicating the wall near the door. "And there's a shell casing on the floor, near the blood."

Della watched, her heart sinking. "Perry doesn't carry a gun," she said. "It must have belonged to Bartlett or his helper."

"He could've been struggling with Trevor over it," Paul said. "It doesn't necessarily mean Perry's the one who got shot, if anyone did."

Della nodded. But in any case, Perry would have to be hurt to some extent. There was no other way he could have been taken out of his apartment without someone hearing a commotion.

"Lieutenant!"

Everyone turned to look at Sergeant Brice's voice. He was making his way over to them, balancing a gold chain and locket on the end of his pen.

"We found this under the couch," he announced.

"I see," Tragg frowned, peering at the object. It was open, revealing a mysterious photograph on one side—that of a dark-haired woman, her features blurred. The overall picture quality was grainy at best.

"Who is she?" Della wondered. "She certainly isn't Gladys Thorn."

"The locket might not even belong to Bartlett," Tragg said. "It might be our only clue to his accomplice." He held out an evidence bag and Brice slipped it off the pen and into the clear plastic satchel.

"We'll see if we can clear up the picture and learn the woman's identity," Brice said. "And if there's any fingerprints, hopefully we'll find out who's interested in her."

Della nodded. "What about some other place Bartlett owns where he might have taken Perry?" she wondered.

"His family owns a cabin nearby," Tragg said. "We're investigating that too." He sighed. "But if Bartlett really wants to stay concealed he won't go there or anywhere else that might be readily searched. He might rely on this unknown accomplice for a location instead."

Paul sighed. "In that case, there probably won't be any fingerprints in here," he said. "They wouldn't want to leave anything that could be traced back to them."

"Lucky for us, I doubt they were intending for this to be lost," Tragg smiled, holding up the evidence bag. "There might very well be prints on this locket. And in any case, the picture inside should help us out somewhat."

Della nodded, feeling horribly empty and blank. This was a nightmare, something she had feared for so long but that had never come true. Why had it happened now? Why couldn't it have stayed an unfounded horror?

"Della . . ."

She raised her eyes at Mr. Burger's voice. He was looking to her now, holding his hat in his hands and gripping the brim.

"I'm honestly sorry about what's happened," he said. "I'm going to have my men on the case too. And I'll be investigating personally." He shifted, looking awkward. "I hope you know that even though Perry and I have our differences, I . . . well, I don't have anything against him." By the last part he was almost mumbling, embarrassed to even be broaching the subject.

Della managed a fond smile. That was Hamilton Burger for you.

Louder, he continued, "And I don't want anything to happen to him. I'll do everything I can to help."

"Thank you," Della said.

"We'll find him," Paul tried to assure her.

"That's not what I'm worried about," she answered quietly. Though she did not elaborate, everyone knew what she meant.

_Would they find him in time?_

xxxx

It was the ticking of the clock that awakened Perry. A weak groan escaped his lips as the return to consciousness brought with it immense pain. His side was throbbing, but his head was outright pounding. Someone had left him propped on the floor against the wall, a highly uncomfortable position.

He forced his eyes open. He was in a small square room, its only furniture a rectangular table. The one window was covered by iron bars. The talkative clock was perched on the windowsill.

"You should find these quarters satisfactory."

He looked to the left at the voice. Trevor Bartlett was standing in front of a closed door, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't," said Perry, his tone both flat and tinged with pain. "Where is this place?"

"This, for all intents and purposes, Mr. Mason, is your prison cell," Trevor said. "It's just about the size of the cell Gladys was in while she waited for her execution."

Perry started to rise, but his side and his head both launched a protest. He sank back, his hand going to his injured side. It was still tender and stabbed him as he touched it. The wound had been dressed, but only enough to keep him from bleeding to death.

"Who treated my gunshot wound?" he asked. "You or your lackey?"

"He did," Trevor said.

"He did a very sloppy job," Perry retorted.

"He did exactly what I told him to." Trevor's tone was smooth and venomous. "After all, I don't want that wound to heal. I want you to stay here and suffer until you die."

"And when will that be?" Perry's voice darkened, his anger evident.

"Exactly when I decide to kill you," Trevor said. "See, with you it's not going to be like Gladys's execution in every way. I don't want you to know when you're going to die. I want you to watch that clock and wait and wonder. Will it be this day? This hour? This minute?"

"And what's going to stop me from ignoring the pain of my wound and getting up to go past you?" Perry asked, refusing to acknowledge the sadistic tirade.

"Oh, I expect you to try to escape, Mr. Mason," Trevor said. "I expect it and encourage it."

"Because you plan to stop me at every turn," Perry guessed.

"And you'll be hurt worse each and every time," Trevor vowed.

Perry leaned back. "That doesn't surprise me, after what you've already done," he said. "What are you trying to accomplish, Trevor? Get yourself executed as well?"

"I don't care what happens to me," Trevor returned, "just as long as you suffer and die, Mr. Mason." He reached into his jacket pocket. "You could have got Gladys off if you'd stayed her attorney. I know you could have."

"I wasn't going to help an admitted murderer," Perry said. "Especially not considering the reasons she gave for her cold-hearted actions."

Trevor gave a bitter laugh. "And you think all the clients you've gotten off are innocent?"

"They have been," Perry said. "At any rate, if any of them have killed, it's been only in self-defense."

"Oh yes, that precious, noble self-defense," Trevor mocked.

Perry's eyes narrowed. "You can't begin to think that Gladys's reasons were justified," he said. "She killed them because she wanted their money and they were in the way. She said so herself."

"So what?" Trevor snapped.

"_So,_ that's murder in the first degree," Perry said.

"Do you know how many people sit around committing crimes and are never caught for them?" Trevor said. "Those big-name gangsters; the police don't do anything about most of them."

"They do what they can," Perry said. "When they have the proper evidence or proof, the 'big-name gangsters' are arrested, just like anyone else who breaks the law."

"Not if the gangsters have the police in their hip pockets," Trevor said. "Face it, Mr. Mason, there's corrupt law enforcement everywhere."

"I never said there wasn't," Perry said. "I don't understand where you're going with this discussion. Are you trying to say that the police should focus on the gangsters instead of people such as Gladys?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Trevor said.

"They're all criminals," Perry shot back. "Every one of them should be brought to justice."

"That's what I'm seeking too." Now Trevor's voice was only a hiss. _"Justice."_ He drew his hand out of his pocket. He was gripping a Taser, deliberately aimed near the wound in Perry's side.

Before Perry could even try to make a move to either get it away from him or at least get out of the way, Trevor lunged. In one moment he had the weapon pressed against Perry's side and was squeezing the trigger.

A cruel and evil smirk spread across his face as Perry could not hold back the cry of agony.


	3. TeamUp

**Chapter Three**

Della sat on Perry's couch, blankly watching as the police continued their sweep of the apartment. Sergeant Brice had departed for the crime lab with the locket, as well as fingerprints that had been dusted off the glasses. The others seemed about ready to wrap up their investigation of the room.

Lieutenant Tragg was still there, as was Mr. Burger. They had vanished into the bedroom to discuss something; Della was not sure what.

Paul was over in the corner, talking with one of his men over his phone. Della could only catch occasional snatches of the conversation over the sound of the police talking.

"No," Paul was saying, "I have no idea who the guy is, only that he's gotta be working with Trevor Bartlett. And we have to find them fast! There's no telling what kind of danger Perry's in right now."

Della stood, crossing to the bedroom door. Maybe she would be able to overhear what Tragg and Burger were saying. Under normal circumstances she would never eavesdrop, but this was hardly what could be called normal circumstances. She inched closer. The voices were muffled, but if she blocked out all other sounds she could hear enough to follow along with the conversation.

"Lieutenant," Mr. Burger was asking, "what are the chances that Perry is still alive?"

Della's heart caught in her throat.

Tragg sighed, wearily and sadly. "It's impossible to say," he said. "Bartlett's family and friends have been alarmed at the news that he's our primary suspect in this case, but they aren't surprised. His mother said that he was an aggressive, angry child—and that those traits only became worse, not better, as he grew older. She said she'll contact us if she hears from him."

"And no one had any clues at all on who his accomplice might be?" Burger wondered.

"Some of my men haven't checked in yet," Tragg said. "But so far, no."

There was a brief silence. "I'm worried about how Della will handle this, especially if Perry's dead."

"I am too," Tragg admitted. "This is a terrible blow for her, likely more than for anyone else. And time is of the absolute essence. Perry may very well still be alive now, but as you know, Mr. Burger, after the first twenty-four hours the chances of finding an abduction victim alive dramatically decrease. And after seventy-two hours those chances are almost nil."

Della turned away, unable to bear hearing more.

There had to be something she could do! She was most certainly not going to stand idly by and twiddle her thumbs while everyone else looked for Perry and the men who had taken him. But it was true; without a bit more information, how could she or anyone else hope to accomplish much of anything? They were pretty much stalled until word came in from someone already out talking to people—or until word came in from the crime lab about that locket.

She almost walked right into Paul coming from the opposite direction. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Oh . . . is there any news?" she demanded, hoping against hope.

"My man Pete Kelton thinks he _might_ have something," Paul said. "But it's a slim _might._ The bartender at Bartlett's favorite dive told Pete that someone came in to talk with Bartlett a couple nights ago. They took a corner booth and acted like they could be making plans for something. Unfortunately, it was too dark in there for the guy's identity to really be seen."

"Pete must have seen something," Della persisted in desperate despair.

"He said _maybe_ the guy was wearing a locket," Paul said. "He couldn't say for sure; he just thought he saw part of one around his neck a few times."

"And he never heard Bartlett say a name?" Della wondered.

"Well . . ." Paul sighed again. "That's another weird thing. The bartender swears that Bartlett called this guy Biff."

"Biff?" Della echoed. "That's a name you don't hear much any more."

"I know," Paul said. "It makes me think of some shady, tough dockhand with big biceps. And probably a dark moustache."

A faint smile passed over Della's features, but it was fleeting.

Paul hurried on, knowing it was not the time for humor. "So anyway, now my men are out looking for a random guy named Biff."

Della could not help but sigh in disconsolation. "It seems worse than looking for a needle in a haystack." She gripped her purse.

Paul nodded. "And Perry's life could depend on finding this needle," he finished.

Della glanced to the closed bedroom door, her mind filled with Tragg and Burger's grim conversation and Paul's latest twist. "That's right, Paul," she said, her voice far away. "And we can't fail him."

Paul looked at her for a long moment. Then, at last, he laid a strong hand on her shoulder. "We won't," he said.

xxxx

Perry had been left lying on his uninjured side on the floor when Bartlett had eased up on the torture and departed, locking the door behind him. For a long moment Perry stayed where he was, dazed and dizzy and breathing heavily from the pain of the assault. His right side was throbbing all the more now. And it felt like it had started bleeding again. Perry fumbled, reaching to place his hand over it.

In the process he bumped a long, slender rectangle in his pocket. Bartlett had not taken his cellphone? Surely he would not make such an oversight. For it to still be there, it must not be working properly.

His hand still lacking adequate coordination, Perry somehow managed to draw out the device. It fell to the floor, his shaking fingers unable to grasp it. He pulled it closer, flipping open the top. _No Service_ flashed across the screen.

Of course, something like that would have to be wrong. And for it to be working and not have a signal was more maddening than if the battery were dead. Bartlett was probably having a good laugh over that.

Perry sighed in frustration. With the support of his left arm, he pushed himself back into a sitting position. What now? The window was inescapable. And the door was locked. Even if he could pick the lock and get out, Bartlett was likely nearby. But if Perry were prepared for an attack, maybe he would be able to fend it off this time.

He searched his pockets. He had not had anything with him that would help in opening a locked door. But somehow a lock-pick had been placed among his belongings.

A deep frown creased his features. Bartlett had given this to him. He was serious about wanting Perry to try to escape. That meant without a doubt that something sinister was planned.

Perry turned the metal object over in his hands. Maybe he would not even have the chance to get the door open before something would go wrong. On a hunch, he threw the lock-pick at the knob. The pick sizzled, bouncing off as it flew halfway across the room to thump on the carpet.

Yes, for the time being at least, he was trapped.

Had Della and Paul discovered yet that he was missing? It went without saying that they would be terribly worried. And they would likely peg Bartlett as a suspect. Bartlett would be expecting that.

So where was this place? Was it owned by Bartlett's mysterious friend? If so, how would anyone ever discover that he was here?

Somehow he had to escape. And right now, it looked like his only chance was to bide his time and then try to catch Bartlett off-guard the next time he came in. If Perry made it out the door he would also have to watch out for that accomplice. If he could overpower that character too, perhaps he would have at least a head start in his flight. Or perhaps Bartlett would have something else in mind, just in case that happened. He would not want to let Perry get away.

Nevertheless, Perry would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. While he was waiting for Bartlett to come in again, he would lie back down and try to conserve his strength. Both the blood loss and the repeated Taser shocks had left him weakened. He would need to have as much energy as possible to surprise Bartlett and make his getaway.

He eased himself down to the floor and closed his eyes. After a moment they popped open. Taking up his phone, he slipped it back into his pocket. There was no sense leaving it around where it could get stepped on. Once he arrived at a location where he could receive a signal, it would be a perfectly useful device.

With that task taken care of, he let his eyes close again.

xxxx

The district attorney's office was already active, despite it being the middle of the night. Thanks to Mr. Burger's call, investigators and assistant D.A.s alike had assembled and were now hurrying in and out as they worked on the case. By the time Mr. Burger arrived, the report from the crime lab had preceded him.

"Sir?"

He turned at the sound of deputy D.A. Chamberlain's voice. The other man was walking briskly towards him, his expression bewildered.

Mr. Burger frowned. "What is it?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

"It's not very right, I'm afraid." Chamberlain held up a faxed piece of paper. "The locket from the crime scene was fingerprinted. There was only one print clear enough to make an identification."

"So what's the problem?" Burger shifted his briefcase's weight to his other hand. "Is the person not in the police files?"

"Oh, he's there," said Chamberlain. "The print was that of a Martin Bradshaw, a wanted hitman. The problem is that he was killed five months ago."

Burger stared. "What?"

Chamberlain nodded. "The police also sent a copy of the report filed when his body was discovered. There was no mistake about its identity."

Burger took the report, studying it quickly before handing it back. "Maybe Bartlett knew him and he had the locket for some reason," he suggested. "Then, during the struggle with Mr. Mason, he dropped it. Start checking into the possibility that they knew each other."

"I'll get right on it," Chamberlain promised.

"Good. Oh, and what about the glasses?"

"The fingerprints on the glasses were identified as those of Trevor Bartlett," Chamberlain said.

"Well, at least we know one person we're looking for," Burger sighed. "I'm guessing the police have issued a warrant for his arrest?"

"Yes," Chamberlain nodded.

"Let's hope he's caught soon." Burger's tone was dark.

He walked past Chamberlain, continuing down the hall to his office. Several workers brushed by him, excusing themselves as they went. Keyboards clattered, printers whirred, and fax machines beeped. It was hectic tonight, moreso than on some days.

This case was ridiculous. Perry was missing and likely hurt, taken by a disturbed nutcase. And a locket belonging to a dead hitman was their only clue. Chamberlain's assessment that something was not right was an understatement.

Entering his office, Hamilton sank down at his desk and leaned back in his chair with a groan. What now? Bartlett's family and friends would have to be contacted all over again to find out whether or not they were aware of Bartlett possibly having a connection with Martin Bradshaw.

And maybe it was not even Bartlett. Maybe it was his unknown accomplice who had been acquainted with Bradshaw.

Hamilton perked up. According to the faxed report on Bradshaw's death, there were two addresses on file for him—places he had used as hideouts. The neighbors at those locations should be questioned too; maybe they had seen something. And the hideouts themselves should be searched. It was a long shot, but it was possible that one of them could be where Bartlett had taken Perry.

He reached for the telephone. He would call Lieutenant Tragg and let him in on this idea. Then, while Tragg set about getting the search warrants, Hamilton would go on ahead, look the buildings over from the outside, and try to talk to the neighbors.

It was not the usual procedure. But he was angry and upset. He had told Della he would be investigating personally, and he had meant it.

Perry had gotten in over his head this time. And he hadn't even done anything to warrant such an attack. Sometimes he bent the law—which of course frustrated Hamilton to no end—or took dangerous chances. Yet in the case of Gladys Thorn, he had simply refused to represent her once the truth had come out about the vicious murders she had definitely committed. No more, no less. Both he and Hamilton felt that Bartlett should have let the matter alone after that. Instead, Bartlett had gone on this outrageous rampage.

Hamilton waited as the phone rang. Once, twice. . . .

_Click._ "Hello?"

Hamilton perked up. "Sergeant Brice? I'd like to speak with Lieutenant Tragg, please."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burger. The Lieutenant's out right now."

"Oh." Hamilton set down the pencil he had been toying with. "Does he have a new lead?"

"I don't think so. He said he was going to question Bartlett's family about Martin Bradshaw."

"What about getting search warrants for the two Bradshaw hideouts we have on record?" Hamilton asked.

"I'm in charge of that, sir," Brice told him. "Lieutenant Tragg had the thought that we should check them for clues." _Or for Mr. Mason himself,_ the unspoken words concluded.

"Good. I'm going to go out ahead of you and inspect the buildings from outside. I'll let you know if there's any suspicious activity at either location."

There was a stretch of silence. "Are you sure that's wise, Mr. Burger?" Brice sounded stunned.

"I won't take any unnecessary chances, Sergeant," Hamilton told him.

". . . Alright," Brice said, still not sure what to make of this. "Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye." Hamilton hung up and grabbed for his briefcase as he stood. He should leave before any more time passed.

He stopped short in astonishment when he opened his door. Della was standing in the corridor, poised to knock. Her eyes widened.

"Della, what are you doing here?" Hamilton exclaimed. "I thought Paul took you home."

She sighed. "I couldn't even try to sleep," she said. "I was too worried. Paul said there was nothing that could be done until morning. I suppose I came hoping that wasn't true, that I could find some kind of lead to follow up on." She looked at him with pleading eyes. "The night watchman recognized me and let me in."

Hamilton sighed too. "I was just going to investigate something," he said. "It might be nothing. On the other hand, it might help." He pulled the door shut behind him as he stepped into the hall.

Della hesitated, then moved to follow him. "Please tell me," she implored. "Perry's life is at stake. With more people helping, he might be found that much faster."

"Della, I've got my entire office working on this," Hamilton told her. "So have Paul and the police. We know it's urgent to find Perry. But that doesn't mean you should get mixed up in something this dangerous."

Della stopped walking when they reached the elevator. "Mr. Burger, it's _Perry_ who's missing," she said. "That means I'm 'mixed up' in it from the start. I won't let anything happen to him, not if there's anything at all I can do to help him! He's always putting himself in danger for his clients, sometimes risking his life as well as his career. The least I can do is see that he's rescued now!"

Hamilton glanced back. He had not expected her outburst—even though, he supposed, it was not such a shock when he really thought about it. He knew how much Perry meant to her. Now, something in her forlorn eyes made him relent, against his better judgment.

". . . Come on," he said. "I'll tell you about it on the way."

Della broke into a smile, regarding him with gratitude. "Thank you," she said in earnest.

The elevator doors opened. Hamilton waited for Della to walk in before entering himself. "Just remember, there is a chance it could be dangerous," he cautioned. "Don't do anything foolish."

Della looked to him. "And why are you going without the police?" she countered.

He focused on the button panel. "What makes you think I am?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Della. "Just a hunch."

Hamilton hit the button and the doors closed. He stepped back with a resigned sigh.

"You win," he admitted. "I'm going without the police. But they know about it. And they'll be along soon."

Della nodded. "We're both worried about Perry," she said. "It's alright to say so."

At last Hamilton's expression softened. "Okay," he said. "We're both worried."

Della shifted, looking down at the elevator floor. "I heard you and Tragg talking in Perry's apartment," she said.

Hamilton started in shock. "You did?" he exclaimed. "I thought we shut the door!"

"You did," Della said. "I was so worried about what you were talking about that I listened in. Don't worry," she added with a melancholy smile. "It's not something I make a habit of. Under the circumstances I couldn't stop myself."

Hamilton sighed in resignation. "I'm sorry," he said. "We didn't want to cause you any more concern. But it was something we needed to talk about."

"I know," Della said. "And I know . . . it could be true," she finished with great difficulty. "I just can't bring myself to consider it."

". . . We didn't want to have to, either," Hamilton said after a pause. "Hopefully Perry really is alive and we can find him before he isn't."

Della gave a quiet nod. As the elevator reached the ground floor and the doors opened, she stepped out into the lobby. Hamilton followed her.

This was certainly a strange twist. She had never imagined that she and Mr. Burger would be investigating part of the case by themselves. He was about the last person she had expected to work with so closely. But here they were, going out a back door to Burger's car in the parking garage.

Hamilton stopped short as they reached it. He frowned darkly, noticing something that Della did not.

"What is it?" she asked.

He removed a slip of paper from under the windshield. "They're on to us," he said. "And they're not happy."

Della peered at the note while he read it. It had been typed in a disturbing font that resembled dripping blood. To add to the effect, it had been printed in red ink. A gasp left her lips.

_Give up the search, District Attorney. Mr. Mason is with me and_

_will stay with me until he's dead. Then you can have him back._

_Maybe._

It was signed _Trevor Bartlett._


	4. Signal

**Notes: Pete Kelton is one of Paul's operatives, played by the wonderful William Boyett in **_**The Case of the Mythical Monkeys.**_

**Chapter Four**

Della was still shaken by the note's contents several minutes later, as she rode with Mr. Burger in his car to the first of the two hideouts. She clutched her purse, her thoughts running wild.

Bartlett was so cold, so sneering, in his words. And he didn't even care if he announced that he was the one responsible for what was happening. What kind of horrible torment was he putting Perry through? How much more would Perry have to suffer before they could find him?

"Are you alright?"

She looked to Mr. Burger in surprise when he spoke. He glanced over, his eyes filled with concern, before turning his attention back to the road.

"I'm not the one you should be worrying about," Della said quietly.

"The abducted person is never the only victim," Hamilton answered.

Della had to agree with that. "But they're the most critical," she said.

Guilt rushed over her as soon as the words were out of her mouth. "I'm sorry," she said. "I've been worried for years that something like this would happen. Now it has, and I'm afraid I'm not handling it very well."

"You're doing fine," Hamilton said. "It's never easy to know how to handle something like this."

Della lowered her gaze. That was certainly true.

". . . Trevor Bartlett letting us know he wrote that note is a bad sign, isn't it?" she asked at last.

Mr. Burger sighed. "Yes, it is," he said finally. "It indicates he doesn't care if we know it's him or what happens to him when we catch up."

"Someone like that must be capable of just about anything," Della said. Anger touched her voice now as well as fear.

"Just about," Mr. Burger agreed. He paused. "Of course, there's the possibility that someone is framing Bartlett," he grudgingly admitted. "But his fingerprints were found on every one of those glasses."

"Perry's proved time and again that the most obvious suspect isn't always the guilty one," Della said ruefully. "But in this case I can't think it could be anyone but Trevor Bartlett."

"I agree with you," Hamilton said. "So do the police." He sighed. "If we could just find out who he's working with . . . !"

Della completely concurred.

She came to attention as Hamilton pulled the car over to the curb moments later. They had entered a neighborhood of ill repute; houses on either side of the street were run-down with chipping paint, dying and weed-filled lawns, and roofs in need of repair. And that was only scratching the surface of what was wrong with these homes.

The abode Hamilton had parked in front of was even worse. One shutter was hanging on the building by a thread. The porch's steps had caved in, while the remaining wood looked ready to rot away. At the side, a dirty window had been broken.

Della recoiled. "Is that where this assassin was supposed to be hiding out?" she exclaimed.

"Unfortunately," Mr. Burger said. "But it doesn't look occupied." He started to get out. "I'm going to look through that window. You'd better stay here."

"Ohh no," Della said, pushing open her door. "I'm coming with you."

Hamilton glanced back, a bit in exasperation. But then, resigned, he walked around to the other side of the car and waited for Della to exit before advancing towards the house. Della was stubborn. If he refused to let her come, she would probably just get out and walk over anyway. It would be safer for her to simply come with him in the first place.

Striving to be as quiet as possible, they made their way over the brown grass and to the broken window. Hamilton peered inside, relying on the moonlight to shine on any clues that someone had been inside recently or was inside right then. Instead something swooped in front of the hole, nearly hitting him in the face. He rocked back.

"What is it?" Della demanded.

Mr. Burger regarded the object in disgust. "A cobweb," he told her.

He looked through the opening again. The window afforded a nice view of the living room, as well as part of the dining room visible through the doorway. But everything looked abandoned. If Perry had been brought here, there were certainly no indications of it from this side.

"What are you doing? I could call the police, you know! And I will, if you don't give me a satisfactory explanation for playing Peeping Tom!"

Both Mr. Burger and Della jumped a mile. As they whirled to look, a middle-aged woman glowered at them from her back porch. For a weapon she was brandishing a broom.

Della started towards the rusted chain-link fence. "I'm sorry," she said. "We're looking for someone who was kidnapped a few hours ago. We thought he might have been brought here."

The older woman's expression did not lighten. "You'll have to do better than that," she snapped. "No one in their right mind would go to that dump, kidnappers or not!"

"Then why is it such a concern if we look through the window?" Della said.

"Because you might come here next," was the frowning reply.

"I'm sorry we startled you, ma'am," Hamilton said, coming up beside Della. "This is Miss Street. I'm Hamilton Burger."

"The district attorney?" The woman peered at him more closely. "Now I know you must be fibbin'. What would the D.A. be doin' way out in a place like this at three in the morning?"

"Conducting a criminal investigation," Hamilton said. "The police are going to be here soon with a search warrant for that house. You say you haven't seen anyone there recently?"

"I certainly have not," the broom-wielder answered, lifting her chin in a haughty manner. "And I ain't heard anything, either."

"Alright. Thank you." Mr. Burger moved to lead Della away. She went agreeably, looking up at the house as they walked back.

"I suppose if anyone is in there, that woman's tirade will scare them," she sighed.

"They wouldn't be happy," Hamilton said. "But I don't think they'd risk coming out right now, especially if Perry is hurt."

"I wish the police would get here," Della fretted.

She studied the yard as they walked to the back of the house. It was more of the same, with crinkly grass and an old and bent apple tree. In the darkness, its branches almost looked like gnarled arms reaching out for them.

"The lights are out here, too," Hamilton observed. "I don't see so much as a flashlight." He crossed to the nearest window, looking inside for a brief moment before stepping away. He hesitated to use a flashlight of his own. Under the cover of night they had a certain advantage. If he beamed a flashlight on the window to see better, someone inside could decide to take a potshot at them. The police would be here within a few minutes, he hoped. Then a more extensive investigation could be performed.

"What's the other hideout like?" Della asked when he stepped back.

"It's an old apartment complex, if I remember right," Hamilton said. "It was condemned a few years ago; no one else lived there."

"This house looks like it should be condemned," Della said, uneasy as she looked up at it.

"I thought it had been," Mr. Burger frowned. "But I don't recall seeing the sign out front."

"Wouldn't they want to leave it on if they were here?" Della said. "It would help keep people away."

"I know," Mr. Burger said. "It would be to their advantage to leave it up."

A window at the other side of the house provided no further clues than those previous. As they circled around to the front, Della dubiously regarded the broken porch.

"I don't see how they could've got Perry up those stairs," she said.

"I don't either," Hamilton said. "And I didn't see a back door."

The sound of a car pulling up brought them both to attention. As it stopped, Lieutenant Tragg got out and headed towards them.

"Well, Mr. Burger," he greeted. "What on earth were you thinking, coming out here alone?" As he drew closer his eyes widened. "You brought Della with you?"

"I wanted to come," Della said. "Mr. Burger was against it."

"With good reason," Tragg said, heading up to the porch. "This is no place for you, Della."

"It's no place for Perry, either," Della answered.

Other police officers followed Tragg onto the porch, picking their way over the gaping openings in the steps. The rest spread out across the property. Della and Hamilton made their way onto the porch.

Tragg tapped the front door with a finger. "Odd; this house was supposed to have been condemned," he mused. He turned the knob. With a low creak the door swung open, revealing a bare and damaged living room. The floor, made of hardwood, was rotted through in places from rainwater due to the leaking roof.

Sergeant Nichols observed it in trepidation. "Everyone, watch your step," he said.

xxxx

The sound of a foghorn cut through the thin mists drifting over the Los Angeles harbor. Despite the late hour, and despite the eerie emptiness of some parts of the waterfront, activity could still be found.

Paul stood on a dock overlooking a large freighter. Dockhands worked ceaselessly, loading the cargo onto the ship in preparation for its departure come morning. They ignored him, not caring if he watched as long as he did not get in their way.

A sound behind him sent him spinning around, his muscles tense. But at the familiar sight of Pete Kelton he sighed in relief. "What's up?" he asked.

"Well, I've been asking around all night about guys named Biff," Pete told him. "I haven't had much more luck than you. I'm guessing you still haven't been able to talk with the Biff working on this load?"

Paul nodded. "The guy I talked to said he'd send Biff over on their next break," he said. "But from the looks of things, who knows when that'll be."

Pete pushed his hat back. "I _did_ manage to track down one of the regular barflies in that dive," he said. "He said that Biff mentioned something about being busy the next few days at the docks."

"So this _could_ be the one we want," Paul surmised.

"Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing if he's Bartlett's accomplice in this kidnapping," Pete said. "I'm sure he won't come out and confess, like it sounds like Bartlett's done."

"We can only hope," Paul said.

A whistle sounded and the men set down their crates and equipment, beginning to spread out over the wharf. One average-sized man caught sight of Paul and Pete and headed their way.

"Well, he doesn't look like the big muscleman you were expecting," Pete mused.

"But he could still be plenty dangerous," Paul said.

"I'm Biff," the man said as he came closer. "I heard you were looking for me?"

"That's right," Paul said. Flashing his identification he added, "My name is Paul Drake. I'm a private detective, looking into an abduction."

Biff crossed his arms, unimpressed. "And what has that got to do with me?" he retorted. "I've been working here for the last five hours. You can ask anyone in the crew."

"We know someone named Biff met with Trevor Bartlett in The Mermaid bar several days ago," Pete spoke up. "We have reason to believe that might have been you."

"Sure, I met the guy," Biff shrugged. "He used to do some dock work with me a few years back. But he wasn't cut out for it and he quit. We see each other sometimes to have some drinks now and then. Is that a crime?"

"No, but withholding information of a crime is," Paul said. "Did Bartlett ever mention that he wanted to abduct someone?"

"He said sometimes he wanted to kill people, but you can't take him seriously," Biff said. "It was just talk."

Paul's patience was wearing thin. "Look, Perry Mason is missing and we know Bartlett was involved," he said. "He's got a grudge against Mr. Mason and is probably capable of doing just about anything to him. We have to find where he is while there's still a chance of getting Perry back alive. Now, do you know anything about it or don't you?"

"If anything does happen, you could be charged as an accessory," Pete added.

Biff frowned. "Look, I don't want to get mixed up in this," he said. "All I know is that Trevor said he hated the guy and blamed him for Gladys Thorn being executed. He told me he was going to do something to 'fix' him. That's it!"

Paul was not ready to back down. "Do you know of anyone who could have gone in with Bartlett?" he asked. "There was an accomplice; we just don't know who."

"I don't know," Biff said. "It could have been Barlow Travis. They've worked together on stuff before."

Paul stared in shock. "Travis?" he repeated. "He's not related to that Travis kid who was killed five years ago?"

"His brother or something, I think," Biff said. A whistle pierced the air again and he glanced back, uneasy. "I've gotta get back now. Break's over."

"Okay," Paul said. "Thanks for your help. We might need to come talk to you some more later."

"Sure, whatever," Biff said. "Hey, I hope you find that Mason guy. I don't want anyone to really get hurt." He started to hurry back to the freighter.

Suddenly Paul remembered something. "Hey!" he called. "Do you own a locket with a blurry picture of a brunette dish in it?"

Biff stopped short and looked back. "No," he said. "But if you've got it, I'd like to see the girl."

"I don't have it. Sorry," Paul said.

Biff shrugged. "Oh well. Now I really have to go." He jogged the rest of the way to the remaining cargo.

Pete looked to Paul. "Well, that was a doozy," he said. "I never would have pegged that one."

"Me either," Paul said. "Come on, we'd better get this information to Lieutenant Tragg. Then we're going to do a little searching for Barlow Travis."

xxxx

Perry was ready and waiting by the time the door began to open once more. His eyes snapped open, focusing on the entering Trevor Bartlett. He was alone.

"Well, Mr. Mason, you have quite a bunch of devoted friends," Bartlett commented. Remaining in the doorway, he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "They're tearing Los Angeles apart to find you. The district attorney even got his staff into the office in the middle of the night."

"And how do you know exactly what they're doing?" Perry retorted. "Do you have more people in this with you to do your dirty work?"

"I felt your friends should be watched," Bartlett said. "At my command, anything could go wrong for any of them. Someone's car could blow up or their house catch fire. Your private detective might be attacked." He paused. "Or maybe I should start with your secretary."

"Leave all of them out of this!" Perry ordered. Forgetting his side, he rose into a sitting position. His blue eyes flashed with anger.

"Why should I?" Bartlett shot back. "I had to stand by and watch Gladys die. Maybe you should helplessly watch as one by one your friends are killed."

Perry's temper bent and broke. In growing rage he leaped up, lunging and grabbing Bartlett before the younger man knew what to make of it. With one strong swing he threw Bartlett into the room and then ran into the hall, slamming the door after him. He turned the key in the lock, his hand trembling as he breathed hard in his fury.

There was no time to waste. He believed that Bartlett had full power to do whatever he threatened. Della was in danger right now. So were Paul, Hamilton, and Lieutenant Tragg. And he had to get out of here and find them.

He barely missed a bullet soaring past his head. He whirled to look but it was no use—the shooter had already ducked around the corner.

Quickly he took in the hallway, up and down. If he went back the way he had come, at the other end of the corridor it branched both left and right. Ahead of him, where the shooter had vanished, it did the same thing.

If he left the gunman alone he would likely be cornered and shot at again. He did not know the layout of this building, whereas his captors did. But it would be foolish to approach the shooter from the same direction in which he had disappeared. At the same time, turning to head towards the other end of the hall would give the shooter ample time to run out and start firing anew.

Every choice was a gamble. He would just have to pick one.

He turned, hastening towards the corridor that was back the way he had come. His side was probably bleeding again, but he would have to ignore it for now. The most important thing was to escape.

Footsteps pounded after him; he was already being pursued. Another shot fired, near his legs. He stumbled in his attempt to miss it.

Bartlett banged on and slammed into the locked door of what was now his prison. But if he wanted his partner to free him he was out of luck. The other person's sole thought was to catch up with Perry. He ran past, getting off a third round of gunfire at the same moment he sprang.

Suddenly Perry was being dragged to the floor amidst his cry of either protest or pain—or both. He struggled, fighting to get back up. His unknown assailant pushed his face into the hard tiles, his hand clawing and digging into Perry's scalp.

"Sorry, Mr. Mason," he hissed. "You're here for keeps."

Perry lay there a moment, trying to both conserve his strength and plan his next move. Then he reached out and up, grabbing the gunman's wrist. With one determined motion he pulled his captor away enough that he was able to push himself to his knees and knock the younger man to the floor. Though he was stunned, it was only for the briefest spell. As Perry went for the gun his attacker became a wild cat, clawing, snarling, and kicking. Perry delivered a harsh punch, then another, and started to pry the weapon out of his hand. Before his opponent could get up Perry was painfully drawing himself upright, the gun clutched tightly in his own hand.

"Mr. Mason."

Perry looked down at the man. He was not much older than Bartlett, placing him in his twenties. Now, as he lay gasping on the floor, his shaggy dark hair falling into his bearded face, he sneered.

"Trevor really can give the order any time for someone to go after your secretary," he said. "She isn't alone right now; she's with the district attorney. Trevor could arrange for them to both be killed. Of course, I'm sure his friends wouldn't want to do away with her just like that, if you get my drift. They'd want to have some fun first."

Perry gripped the gun, his knuckles going white. "He can't do a thing from in that room," he said. "My cellphone isn't receiving service. Neither will his."

"He and I can use a device with stronger reception than a cellphone," was the reply. "It's powered by satellite. And I could send the signal right now, while you're holding that gun on me."

"You can't," Perry retorted. "I won't let you."

"Will you kill me to stop me, Mr. Mason?" the gunman said with a smooth smirk. "Your side's oozing blood. I don't think you could move fast enough to stop me if you don't pull the trigger." He started to reach into his pocket.

Perry fired, shaving skin off the back of the bearded man's hand. He hissed in pained surprise. Before he could recover Perry had managed to bend down, taking hold of his wrists.

"I don't have to kill you," Perry said through clenched teeth. "I don't _want_ to kill you. I want you to stand trial for the wrong you've done."

His prisoner stumbled to his feet, trying in vain to pry Perry's strong hand away. "Come on, man," he said. "You'll never get away. The house is wired up with electricity. Every outside door and window is blocked by a force field. Trevor and I are trapped in here too, unless that's turned off."

"How is it turned off?" Perry queried.

"Near the front," was the answer. "There's a security room. But you still can't save your friends, Mason. Trevor probably long ago sent the signal out to attack."

A cold chill went down Perry's spine. "How do I warn them?" he demanded. _"Tell me!"_

"There isn't any way!" the younger man gasped. "And if he's given the signal, it's probably already in progress!"

Perry stared at him for a short moment. "Come on," he snapped then. "You're going to show me how to turn off the electric force field. And you're going to call off this signal." Still holding the gun in one hand, he started to drag his prisoner away.

All the while he silently, desperately prayed that the others would be safe.


	5. Pursuit

**Chapter Five**

"That was terrible."

Della pulled her coat closer around her as she and Mr. Burger arrived on the grass following the search of the abandoned house. Lieutenant Tragg had said for her to wait on the porch while the police checked the house, but under the circumstances she had refused to just stand by. And when she had entered, Mr. Burger had followed.

Perry had been nowhere inside, which she had mixed feelings about. It was a relief to know he was not in that terrible, crumbling abode. But it gave way to worrying more about where he _was._ If only they could have found him; he would be safe now!

Mr. Burger sighed. "The police have to investigate places like that all the time," he said. "Paul probably does too. We've both had it easy—we do most of our work behind our desks."

"I've been with Perry to some strange places before," Della said. "But never to any place as awful as that house. The floor was completely gone in that one room!"

Mr. Burger gave her a sidelong glance. "Do you still want to go to the apartment complex?" he wondered. "Sergeant Brice is probably there by now. He'll let us know if he finds anything."

"I want to go," Della said firmly. She turned to look at him. "Anyway, you're planning to go whether I come with you or not. Aren't you?"

Hamilton stopped walking and regarded her in resigned exasperation. "I could ask you the same question," he said.

"And I believe we know the answers to both," Della said smoothly. "So we might as well go together."

Hamilton shook his head in disbelief. "Is this the kind of thing Perry has to put up with from you?" he said.

Della just smiled.

Hamilton sighed. "We'll just go," he said. "Come on." He started to head for the car, making sure that Della was walking alongside.

The ride to the other hideout went well at first. The streets were still fairly quiet in the early morning hours; very few cars or people passed Mr. Burger's vehicle. It was impossible for either him or Della to relax, but the lack of traffic helped a bit. At least they were able to move quickly.

The sound of a bullet gave them both a terrible start. The lead soared past, nearly clipping the side mirror.

Hamilton glanced over his shoulder. "Not again!" he griped in frustration.

Della looked back too. A dark car was close behind. A man leaning out the passenger window clutched a gun, preparing to squeeze the trigger.

Hamilton pressed on the accelerator. "This time I am not going to be run off the road," he vowed.

His mind was racing. Those men must have been sent by Bartlett. But why had they waited to attack until now? They could have just as easily made their move before he and Della had arrived at the first location. Did they not want the second locale to be seen?

Della was digging into the door's armrest with her fingernails. As a second bullet went by she ducked down in alarm.

"A few weeks ago I'd never been chased at gunpoint in my life," Hamilton growled, speeding around a corner.

"And suddenly you're the most-wanted target!" Della exclaimed.

"The first time they definitely wanted me," Hamilton said. "This time it might be both of us."

Tires screeched on the pavement as first one car, then the other, tore down streets and zipped around corners. Della's eyes widened as they approached a roundabout. They were supposed to slow down here in case of an accident, but if they did the assassins would catch up.

Mr. Burger zoomed to the right, circling the roundabout. A car approaching from the street to the right gave a shrill honk as it was cut off. When the dark car continued its hot pursuit, Della snuck a glance out the window. The angry, stranded driver at the intersection was now staring in disbelief.

"I wonder if he'll call the police," she said, forced to speak loud over the roar of the engines.

"It's too bad there aren't any around," Mr. Burger said.

Della looked back again as they cleared the roundabout, and a semaphore just before it turned red. Their pursuers sped right on through. "They're staying with us!" she cried. "What can we do?"

"Pray we get to a squad car or a stationhouse before they catch up," Mr. Burger answered.

That seemed unlikely.

"Look out!" Della screamed several blocks ahead. A pedestrian was already in the process of crossing the street, directly in their path.

Hamilton stared in horror. If he slammed on the brakes now, it was doubtful that he would stop in time. And if he did, the car behind them might very well crash into them, pushing them forward anyway. He swerved in desperation. The left rear tire rolled over the curb as he steered around the corner. The poor pedestrian, bewildered and stunned by the obvious chase, fled back to the sidewalk until the dark car had also passed.

"We have to go where we won't endanger anyone else!" Hamilton declared.

"But where?" Della looked up and down the streets. "We're back in the heart of the city. And the danger is worse in the residential area we came from." Even though it was broken-down, people still lived there. And the speed limit was far lower in any residential neighborhood. But before long there would be many people throughout the downtown area. When they started coming, this would be far more of a deathtrap.

"Here's a parking garage," Hamilton noted. He moved to the right and passed through the garage entrance. They were just lucky that this was not a garage with a tollbooth and a barrier.

The dim, echoing space was mostly vacant at this hour of the morning. Here and there a car was parked, but for the most part they had the garage to themselves.

The assassins took the opportunity to fire again. The sound of the bullet repeated among the cavernous walls and pillars. The lead itself landed harmlessly on the asphalt.

"Can you get a cellphone signal in here?" Hamilton asked. He drove onto the next level via an interior, circular ramp.

"I don't know!" Della exclaimed. She dug into her purse, searching for her phone. In her frantic flurry, everything else seemed to be almost deliberately getting in her way.

"If you can, call Lieutenant Tragg and tell him what's happening!" Hamilton directed.

Della never had the chance to find out if her phone would work. As Hamilton continued up the ramp to the next floor, a station wagon suddenly appeared at the top. Hamilton honked despairingly, speeding onto the level concrete as the assassins gained on them. The driver of the new vehicle, panicking, swerved away. The dark car arrived and swerved at the same moment, also trying to avoid a collision with the same vehicle. It smashed into the railing.

At the sickening crunch, Hamilton and Della both glanced back. Smoke was emanating from the crumpled hood. Neither occupant made a motion to get out of the car. The people from the station wagon were hurrying out and going over, calling to the assassins without response.

Hamilton put on the brakes and parked. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking to Della.

She gave a shaking nod. "Yes," she said. "But it looks like our 'friends' have seen better days."

Hamilton slowly let go of the steering wheel. "I'll try to call Lieutenant Tragg," he said. "Then I'll go over and see if I can do any good there."

Della twisted around, watching the scene behind her. The car did not seem to be in danger of exploding. The good Samaritans were attempting and failing to open the vehicle's locked doors.

"They're trying to get those people out of the car," she said, hurrying to open her door. "We'd better go over now and tell them what happened."

Hamilton concurred. If the assassins were unconscious, it would be far better to let them stay that way, in the car, until the police arrived.

"Just a minute!" he called as he opened his door and stepped onto the concrete. "Don't open that car!"

The people jumped a mile. "And what do you mean by that?" an indignant woman snapped, her hands going to her hips. "You come barreling up here, almost hit us, and then this car gets into a wreck and you won't even do anything to help the poor people inside? The police are going to hear about this, just you wait and see! I'll tell them everything myself!"

"Then you'd better also tell them that the men in this car were trying to kill us," Della put in.

The angry woman opened her mouth to retort, but then closed it as Della's words sunk in. "What?" she gasped.

"That's right, ma'am," Hamilton told her. "We came in here because we were hoping to get away from the other people who were being endangered by the chase. I'm sorry you were almost hit."

A dark-haired man, the woman's companion, peered into the car again. "That one guy _does_ have a gun," he reported.

"They were shooting at us," Della said.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll call the police," Hamilton said. "If I can't raise a signal in here, I'll have to go outside."

The woman nodded. "Please, go ahead," she said, with a glance of trepidation at the crashed vehicle. "We'll try to make sure they don't get out."

Hamilton paused. Outside, the sound of approaching police sirens was very clear—and growing louder. He stepped to the nearby view between two support pillars. Sure enough, several squad cars were turning in to the parking garage below.

He looked back to Della. "We won't need to make that call now," he said. "It looks like we attracted a lot of attention with those wild stunts."

Della's shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank goodness," she declared.

xxxx

Fifteen minutes later the dazed men had been pulled from the car, handcuffed, and were being loaded into a squad car. They glared, sullen, at Mr. Burger and Della.

"I'm glad that's over," Della said.

Mr. Burger nodded. "Now if they only could have told us more," he said.

The men had readily confessed that Trevor Bartlett had hired them, and that he had alerted them via a communications device powered by satellite to track down and kill Mr. Burger and Della. But they had only had contact with Bartlett. They did not know who his accomplice was. All they had been able to give was the address where they had met Bartlett for their instructions and payment. It was not the address of the apartment complex to which Mr. Burger and Della had been en route.

"Well, Mr. Burger, I hope this has taught you a lesson! You should leave this sort of thing to the police. And to your own investigators!"

He and Della started and turned at Lieutenant Tragg's voice. The veteran policeman was walking over to them from where he had parked near the ramp. His gruff tones attempted to mask his true concern, without much success.

"Don't think I won't, on the next case," Mr. Burger replied.

"_Oy gevalt,"_ Tragg groaned. "_This_ hasn't convinced you to work this case from behind a desk? Or you, Della?" He turned his attention to Perry's secretary.

"Not in the least," Della said.

"I'm sticking with it," Hamilton said. "And I'm wondering why Bartlett chose now to have those men come after us. Is there something he doesn't want us to see at that apartment building?"

Tragg sighed. "Well, if there is, I can't imagine what," he said. "Sergeant Brice reported in a few minutes ago. There's nothing out of the ordinary there, either. Oh, and by the way, Bartlett's family and friends have no idea whether he knew Martin Bradshaw."

"Then we'll just have to follow up on that address the hitmen gave us," Della said.

"Now just a minute," Tragg glared. But instead of finishing his sentence he threw his hands in the air. "Oh, what's the use. Fine, you can see what's at that address. But not without me!" he added.

"That's alright with me," Hamilton said. "And I doubt Miss Street has any objection."

"None whatsoever," Della said firmly.

Tragg tiredly pushed back his hat. "Very well then," he said. "I'll speak to the officer here and then we'll go."

Della watched him walk over to the other police. Suddenly something occurred to her. "Paul!" she exclaimed.

Mr. Burger looked to her, raising an eyebrow. "What about Paul?" he wondered.

"Maybe we weren't the only targets. What if Trevor Bartlett is having someone go after Paul too?" Della elaborated.

Hamilton grimaced. "I didn't think of that," he admitted. And it was possible, he supposed. "You'd better call him right away."

Della nodded, taking out her phone.

xxxx

The security room was much like the security room in any business establishment, with rows of monitors above a large console. Perry approached them, still holding the shaggy-haired man at bay.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the various scenes. Apparently there was a camera in the room where he had been held captive, as one monitor depicted Bartlett. Instead of trying to get out, however, he was pacing the room and occasionally stopping to look directly up at the camera. What was he doing? Attempting to attract the attention of someone who was supposed to be in this room? Or was he aware that Perry was in here and he was sneering at his enemy's partial escape? Maybe he knew something that Perry did not.

"What is this place?" Perry demanded of his captive. Considering the number of monitors, it must be a very large building.

"Just a house," was the retort.

Still gripping the gun, Perry jabbed the barrel into the younger man's side. "How do I turn off that satellite signal?" he demanded.

"You can't, man! At least, not in time to call the suits off. See, look." A shaking finger pointed at a flashing red light on the largest monitor, in the center of the display. "That means that the attacks are already in progress. At least one person you care about is in active danger right now, maybe more."

Perry's expression darkened. "There's still time," he said. "As long as they might be alive, there's time. _Now,_ how do I turn it off?"

The bearded man's shoulders slumped. "See that button on the keyboard, with the red light over it? Hit it again and it'll go green. That'll send out another signal so Trevor's thugs will back off."

Perry looked to the keyboard. "Are you sure?" he demanded, his voice clipped. "If you're trying to trick me, you will be very sorry."

"It's the truth," was the shaking reply. "But if somebody's already hurt, they might still die." He hesitated. "And Trevor can override it even if you try to take it off."

"Can his device be deactivated from here?" Perry wanted to know.

"I guess. Maybe if you're a tech expert. I'm not."

"Then I'll just have to take the chance of being overridden." Perry began to loosen his grip on the guy's wrist. "I'll have to let go of you to press the button. But if you make any motion to either stop me or escape, I will shoot. Don't think that I won't."

"Okay, man. Sure. Don't shoot! I'll stand right here."

Perry could feel him going rigid. In one swift move Perry pressed the button and then took hold of him again. "What kind of technology is this anyway?" he frowned. "Why not simply use satellite phones?"

A weak shrug. "It's something they made up for times when a phone isn't a good idea. It's kind of like a beeper, I guess. But it doesn't beep; the light just glows red or green. It's a prototype."

"What's Bartlett doing with it? Nevermind; how do I turn off the electric force field?" Perry demanded.

"That's more complicated. I'm not sure I can tell you."

"Bartlett must have told you," Perry retorted. "Just do your best."

His prisoner ran his tongue over his lips, nervous, as he looked back and forth between the console and Perry. Perry's visage never lightened.

"Well?" he said. "I'm waiting."

The younger man drew a shaking breath. "Okay," he consented. "It's like this."

xxxx

Paul and Pete were in a predicament. As with Della and Mr. Burger, a car had begun to follow them once they left the docks. Unlike with Della and Mr. Burger, this car's occupants did not open fire. Its silent shadowing only served to make the two private investigators more unsettled than ever.

"What do we do?" Pete asked in concern.

"I've been trying to shake them, but no dice," Paul said in frustration. "Maybe the only thing left is to turn around, stop, and have it out with them."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Pete frowned.

"No, I'm not," Paul shot back. "But this is getting ridiculous and I'm sick of it! And I'd rather not lead them to Barlow Travis's house."

There were no other cars on the road. Paul swung around in a broad U-turn, then parked the car sideways across the lane. As he got out, he headed towards the slowing vehicle in indignation and annoyance. Concerned, Pete followed suit.

"What's the big idea?" Paul called once their pursuers had stopped and were exiting the car. "What do you want with us?"

"It's nothing personal," one of the strangers answered. "We're just following orders to keep tabs on you for a while."

"Whose orders?" Paul snapped. He stepped closer, silently threatening.

The suits were not intimidated. One of them drew a gun, pointing it directly at Paul. "It doesn't matter whose orders," he said. "It just matters that you don't do anything stupid about it. Then you might stay alive."

"_Might?"_ Paul echoed. "Look, I'm not crazy about those odds. In fact, I don't like them at all."

Pete tensed. He had a family to think of. What could he or Paul do to get out of this? These people meant business. And in this scenario there was no way to get the drop on their enemies. If only there was a distraction they could use!

He looked from one thug to the other. The second one was staring at something on his belt that had started flashing green. "Hey," he said low to his partner, "we have to back off now."

The first man looked as well. "You're right," he said. He replaced his gun with a flourish. As he did so, Paul caught sight of an odd insignia on the shoulder holster. But then the suitcoat was over it again and they were turning away, back to the car.

"Hey!" Paul called after them. "Where are you going now?"

They ignored him. Once they were in their vehicle, the driver started the engine and backed up, then turned the car around and sped off the way they had come. Paul and Pete gaped.

"It was some device that started flashing," Pete said at last. "They looked at that and decided to clear out."

"It doesn't make sense!" Paul exclaimed.

"That's putting it mildly," Pete said. "It looks like we'll be making another call to Lieutenant Tragg."

"We're giving him a lot of business tonight," Paul said. "How about you make the call while I drive us to Barlow Travis's place?"

Pete nodded. "You got it."

xxxx

It was when they arrived at the Travis home that it became clear something else was wrong. The front door was standing wide open. Beyond it, toppled furniture was visible in all directions.

Paul shook his head as he pulled into the driveway. "Uh oh," he said. "What have we got now?" He quickly exited the car and headed up the sidewalk, Pete hot on his heels.

His phone rang as he stepped onto the porch. He took it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. This was not a good time to answer. But his eyes widened at the name on the I.D. It was Della calling. Was something wrong?

He flipped the phone open while wandering into the entryway. "Della, what's going on?" he asked. "We're just going into Barlow Travis's house." Pete moved ahead of him, picking his way over the fallen lamps and chairs.

"Paul, are you alright?" Della asked. "Mr. Burger and I were just shot at and nearly run off the road by a couple of men Bartlett hired."

". . . _What_ happened to you and Burger?" Paul burst out. Pete jumped a mile. "Look, what are you even doing out at this time of the morning anyway? I took you home so you could get some sleep!"

"How could I sleep with Perry missing?" Della retorted.

Up ahead, Pete stopped short and stiffened. Paul frowned. "What's wrong?" he asked, holding the phone slightly away from his ear.

"We're going to be making another call to Lieutenant Tragg," Pete said, grim. "There's a body in here."


	6. Blackout

**Chapter Six**

The address where the hitmen had met Trevor Bartlett was, for once, a decent locale. As Mr. Burger drove up to the modern, well-kept house and parked, he and Della regarded it in both surprise and satisfaction.

"This looks like the nicest place we've been to all night," Hamilton said.

"There shouldn't be any missing floors here," Della agreed in relief. She started to get out of the car. "Do you think Perry could be inside?"

"I don't know." Hamilton exited as well and walked around to the passenger side. Behind them, Lieutenant Tragg was departing his own vehicle. Hamilton glanced to him, then back to Della. "I don't want to give you false hope."

Della nodded, managing a melancholy smile. "I know."

Her expression sobered. "Do you think Paul and Pete are alright?" She shook her head. "It was such a shock when Paul told me what they'd found."

"They should be alright until Sergeant Nichols gets there," Hamilton answered. "It sounded like they were the only ones in the house." He frowned. "But it is strange. They don't even have any idea whose body it is."

Overhearing, Lieutenant Tragg regarded them in exasperation. "Della, you, Perry, and Paul are magnets for that kind of trouble," he said.

"Well, nevermind that," Della said. She nodded at the house. "What is this place? Who lives here?"

"Headquarters has been trying to locate information on it since you and Mr. Burger gave the address to those officers," Tragg said. "They've been having a bit of trouble." He started moseying up the driveway.

Hamilton and Della followed. "What do you mean?" Hamilton frowned. "What kind of trouble?"

"No one's sure who owns it," Tragg said. "The owner's name seems to be a fake. And the house doesn't appear to be lived in full-time. Instead, the neighbors see people passing in and out on varying days and weeks."

"And there aren't any clues at all?" Della exclaimed.

"There's some suspicion that the house is owned and used by members of the Altec Corporation," Tragg said. "The name the buyer used was in some ways an anagram of the company name. And the descriptions of some of the people the neighbors have seen match the descriptions of some of the high-ranking officers at Altec."

"But why would they do something like this?" Burger frowned. "What would be the point?"

"Perhaps they just want a place to come meet in secret or even to simply relax for a while," Tragg said. "On the other hand, they could be using it for a less than legal purpose."

"Such as holding Perry hostage," Della said quietly.

"Could be," Tragg said, noncommittal.

They reached the porch and Tragg knocked. Inside, most of the lights were on.

"I can't imagine what connection Bartlett would have with Altec," Burger said, stepping back to look up at the over-hanging roof.

"I can't either," Tragg said. "However, when the hitmen were searched, each of them was found to be carrying a strange doohickey. It was flashing green. They said it was a signal sent by satellite to instruct them when to attack and when to back off. It had turned red when they decided to follow you.

"Anyway, the point is that the strange devices are from Altec. They have the company name stamped on them."

Della blinked in surprised confusion. "Does that really mean anything?" she said. "Can't anyone buy them from Altec?"

"No, actually," Tragg said. "They're prototypes. The final product hasn't been released yet."

"So the only person who could distribute them would be someone with connections to the company," Burger concluded.

"Or a thief," Tragg said. "But it would take a lot of skill to break into the building where they store the prototypes. And there was no report of such a robbery. We've tried contacting the top-ranking officials about this, but most of them claim they don't know anything. Three others weren't at home. We're going to pay them another visit in a while."

He glowered at the door. "No one's coming."

"They're running up their electric bill if they're not home," Burger remarked.

Tragg knocked again. "Police! Open up!" he barked. When there was still no answer he walked around to peer through the nearest window. "Nothing," he reported in disgust. "Maybe they don't care about their electric bill."

"Aren't we going to go in?" Della protested. "What if Perry's in there?"

"We're going in," Tragg said. "See, it's a good thing you agreed to let me come along." He briefly flashed the search warrant that he had returned to headquarters to obtain before they had come here. Then, drawing his gun in case of emergency, he prepared to kick in the double-doors.

"Do you need some help with that, Lieutenant?" Burger asked, eying the heavy doors.

Tragg did as well. "That might be a good idea," he mused. "Alright, Mr. Burger. Let's give it a go."

While Della watched, the two men lashed out at the doors, sending them flying open. Tragg hurried in first, gun held high. When no one appeared, Mr. Burger wandered in as well. Della trailed after him.

"It's well-furnished," Burger commented, glancing around at the expensive leather sofas and chairs and high-quality lamps.

Della was tense as they passed through the living room and into the kitchen to its side. Was Perry here somewhere? She wanted to call to him, but the possibility that she might just alert his captors stayed her tongue. The last thing she wanted was to get him into further danger.

"The house is ready for guests, but it's not well-stocked for anyone living here full-time," Tragg commented. He opened the fridge, revealing nothing other than a sack of take-out. "Wouldn't you say?"

Burger peered at the fridge's contents. "That doesn't have a receipt with identification stapled to it, does it?" he wondered.

Tragg took out the bag and examined it from all angles. "Well, what do you know," he mused. "It just so happens that it does." His eyes narrowed, his easy-going manner fading and turning to displeasure. "Trevor Bartlett. And the receipt is dated earlier this night."

Della stared. "Then Perry must be here!" she cried.

Tragg frowned, carrying the sack with him as he closed the fridge. "I'm going to call for backup before we go any further," he said. "For all we know, we've walked right into a trap." He headed into the living room and towards the front door, trusting that they were following him.

Della hurried to the doorway to look after him. Then, turning, she studied the hallway beyond the living room.

Perry was so close. He had to be in one of those rooms! Why would Bartlett stay here, storing take-out for himself in the fridge, if he was not holding Perry prisoner?

"You're not planning to go sneaking off somewhere, are you?"

She jumped a mile. She had thought Mr. Burger had been investigating the kitchen cupboards. Instead he had come up behind her.

"Tragg will be back in a minute," he said. "Then we can keep going. But he's right—we don't know what we're getting into here. Bartlett might even _want_ us around. And if he does, you can be sure it's not for any good reason."

Della turned away from the doorframe, facing him. For a brief moment she looked into his eyes, seeing the genuine concern. Averting her gaze, she walked past him, over near the table. "There's no telling what's happening to Perry right now," she said.

"It's not going to help him if you get hurt," he replied. "Let's go outside and wait for the Lieutenant."

Before either of them could make a move, Tragg re-entered the house. "I thought you two were right behind me," he frowned in accusation.

"I'm sorry, Tragg," Mr. Burger apologized. "Apparently Miss Street had some ideas about exploring on her own."

Della regarded both him and Tragg with thinly veiled displeasure. "You would have been investigating by yourself if I hadn't come along, Mr. Burger," she said.

Mr. Burger looked to Tragg, then up at the ceiling, with a definite _Give me strength!_ air. "It's just for your own protection," he said as he looked back to Della. "Besides, I don't want to think about what Mr. Mason might do to me if I let anything happen to you."

That at last prompted a smile from Della. "Alright," she said. "I should be perfectly safe with two escorts. Are we ready to keep looking?"

Mr. Burger nodded, but then glanced to Tragg. "What about the backup?"

"They'll be here as soon as possible," Tragg said. "Meanwhile, I suppose we can resume the search while we're waiting. But both of you stay right with me!" He gave them a stern glare. "You're worse than headstrong kids wanting to strike out on their own."

Della regarded him in amusement. When he went past, intent on taking the lead, she gave Hamilton a sidelong glance. "That's the first time I've been compared to a headstrong kid," she said, a smile on her lips.

"Same here," Hamilton said.

Della extended her arm. "Shall we?"

Shaking his head, a bit amused as well, Hamilton took her arm and they set out after Tragg. Exasperated, the police lieutenant rolled his eyes.

xxxx

By the time Sergeant Nichols arrived at Barlow Travis's house, Paul and Pete had picked their way over the chaotic rooms in search of other people or evidence as to what exactly had happened. They were just making their way back into the living room when Nichols walked in through the open door.

"What's the situation?" Nichols greeted.

"There's no one else in the house," Paul said. "And we're not sure who the murder victim is, except for one thing."

Pete nodded. "She looks like she could be the same girl from the locket that was found in Mr. Mason's apartment."

Nichols stared. "I wasn't told that by Lieutenant Tragg," he said.

"We didn't realize it until after we called him," Paul said. "He probably would've shown up himself if he'd known."

"You're right," Nichols said. "Okay, we'll get to work here. You two can go."

Pete was all too relieved to be out of the room. Paul, on the other hand, was tense and frustrated.

"Maybe she could have told us something, if we'd only known where to find her!" he exclaimed. "Now she's dead; another potential lead down the drain."

"Maybe she'll still be able to tell us something, once they've ID'ed her," Pete said.

"I hope so, for Perry's sake," Paul sighed.

Pete looked down, sobered into silence. At last he said, "There's no sense in us staying here any longer. And nothing more will be known for a while. Maybe we should call it a night."

"You can go home," Paul immediately said. "You've got a family and your wife's probably up worrying. I'll drop you off. Then I think I'll go on to that place where the hitmen said Bartlett paid them off. Tragg and the others should be there by now."

Pete hesitated, but then nodded. "Alright," he consented. "But call me if there's any new developments, no matter what time it is. You know I'll come right out."

Paul nodded too. "Right. Come on." He headed down the steps towards his car.

Pete followed close behind. Above them, the moon slipped behind some fast-moving clouds, darkening the night.

That was about how this case felt right now—fast-moving and dark, without a solution in sight.

xxxx

The door to the security room burst open before Perry's prisoner could finish telling him about disarming the electric force field. Both of them whirled, Perry in surprise, the prisoner not so much. Trevor Bartlett strolled into the room, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Congratulations, Mr. Mason," he said. "You got this far. Now, how do you think I managed to escape that locked room?"

"I wouldn't know," said Perry, his voice cold. A quick glance at the monitor showed him that Bartlett was still in the room, having decided to sit on the floor.

He looked back to his nemesis. "Obviously you recorded yourself in the room at an earlier time and put that tape into the security camera so I wouldn't see you getting out. You planned that I would end up in the security room at some point."

"Bravo," Bartlett said. "But that was really a cheap trick. I expected you to figure that one out."

"So what happens now?" Perry retorted.

"Now, I hold a gun on you and order you to release my pal." Bartlett drew out a .38 caliber weapon and pointed it at Perry, who glared.

"I could just as easily raise my weapon to you and we'd be in a Mexican standoff," Perry said.

"Except you already admitted to my associate that you don't want to kill him," Bartlett returned. "I'm sure you feel the same way about me." He indicated a small, rectangular device on his belt. "I know you're already familiar with these. I can reactivate the signal and sic my men on your friends again before you could do anything about it."

Perry glowered at the object. What he would really like to do would be to break it. But it was too big a chance. If he tried to shoot it, he might miss and shoot Bartlett instead. And he did want Bartlett alive to stand trial.

"If I release your friend, what happens then?" Perry asked. "I have no assurance that you won't send out that signal anyway."

"That's right, you don't," Bartlett said. "And you have every reason to think I will. But if you don't release him, there's a one hundred percent chance I'll do it. If you let him go, that percentage will drop."

Perry looked at him, eyes narrowed. "You want to torment me before you kill me," he said. "And you've already determined that the most effective way to go about it is to target people I know. You'll get around to it eventually no matter what I do now."

"That's smart, Mr. Mason," Bartlett said. "You're right. As long as you're my prisoner, they're all in danger. In fact, even if you escape they'll still be in danger, just as long as this device can send signals via our satellite."

"Then disarming it would solve that problem," Perry said. "All I would have to do would be to shoot it off your belt."

"If you can," Bartlett said. "And don't forget the pieces would fly everywhere, just like shrapnel. I could be fatally struck by one of them even if by some miracle you actually hit the transmitter instead of me."

Perry clutched the gun, his knuckles white. "Don't tempt me," he said.

Finally he pushed his prisoner away from him. "Alright, you have what you want," he told Bartlett, watching the bearded man stumble forward from the shove. "Now what?" Assuming the chances of the deadly signal being sent would indeed decrease, if only for the time being, he stood a better chance of getting what he wanted if he waited. He still needed to learn how to disengage the force field.

Bartlett smirked. "Now," he said, "we're going to play another little game."

"No more of your games!" Perry rumbled.

Bartlett ignored him. "Remember what I mentioned about attacking your friends one by one?" he said. "When I activated the signal before, everyone was alerted. But I can also fine-tune the transmitter so it only sends to one or two other devices at a time. Even if all of my targets are together, I can separate them and have them picked off individually." Before Perry could do a thing, Bartlett stabbed a button on top of the transmitter.

Perry's eyes widened in sheer horror and anger. "Who are you going after?" he demanded, taking a step forward.

"I honestly don't know, Mr. Mason," Bartlett said. "Several friends of yours are in the same place right now. So when my man breaks them up and takes out one of them, there's an equal chance of it being any of them."

Perry was outraged. He moved to lunge and seize Bartlett, but the younger man anticipated him. "Uh uh." He held the gun at the console. "If you come any closer, or try to turn off the signal the same way you did before, I'll shatter the disarming button. That will alert every one of my men again. And it will mean that my device is truly the only way to stop any of them. Take your choice, Mr. Mason. Will you lose one friend now, or all of them?"

Perry froze, faced with the unthinkable choice. His heart raced wildly. Who would be the target? Della? Paul? Hamilton? Tragg? Someone else? Any way he looked at it, it was horrible.

At last he spoke. "Even if any one person is targeted, there's no guarantee they won't live," he said. "They might outsmart your man."

"Let's see, shall we?" Bartlett sneered. "We'll just wait for the answering signal that will mean someone's gone down." He crossed the room to the console and sat down in the nearest chair. "You're welcome to join me."

Perry remained standing, desperately seeking a solution that remained elusive.

xxxx

Tragg, Della, and Mr. Burger had managed to cover the ground floor of the house and were moving up to the second floor when the lights abruptly extinguished themselves, plunging the manor into darkness. Confusion erupted.

"What's going on?" Della exclaimed. "Has there been a blackout?"

"Someone might have thrown the switch in the fusebox," Tragg said. "Just a minute and I'll get my flashlight."

"If this was done on purpose, someone knows we're here," Mr. Burger remarked. He felt his way along the wall, seeking the others.

Instead the wall flipped open, sending him sprawling onto the other side. It clicked shut noiselessly, leaving him stranded in his new location.

Dazed, he started to push himself upright. "What happened?" he muttered. Fumbling in his pocket for a flashlight, he located it and switched it on.

The room on the other side of the panel was well furnished, just like the rest of the house. But it was as though he had been deposited into the past. The style of the furniture, as well as the wall-to-wall rug, was that of the Victorian era. Kerosene lamps had been placed on tables, while others were suspended on the walls. They were out; the only illumination came from the moon beaming into the room. An old black-and-white photograph, resembling the style of the 1930s, was positioned on top of a desk under the window.

Hamilton crossed the room, curious and bewildered. As he lifted the photograph he stared in disbelief. "This is . . ." It was unmistakably a clear version of the picture in the locket from Perry's apartment. The enigmatic brunette smiled at the camera with knowing yet mysterious eyes.

In the corner was an inscription. He stepped closer to the window, adjusting the picture to catch the glow from the moon.

_Darling—_

_A true light never goes out._

—_Marlene_

He frowned. What did that mean? It didn't make the slightest sense to him. But this item was evidence, and with Tragg's warrant they had a right to take it for the case. He slipped it, frame and all, into his briefcase.

A sound from behind sent him whirling, on guard. A dark silhouette was emerging from the corner of the room, lunging towards him. Hamilton met him, grabbing his attacker's wrists as he held his ground, struggling to throw the other man back. Physical fights were not a part of his job description. This sort of grappling was not something he was used to.

With a final shove he sent the figure flying backwards, stumbling on the old carpet. Before the stranger could recover, and before Hamilton could so much as go for his flashlight again, something hard struck him on the head once, then twice.

The district attorney gasped in pain and surprise as he sank to the floor.


	7. Marlene

**Notes: Ooops. While looking over the previous chapter, I'm not sure I made it clear that it was Hamilton Burger and not his assailant who was hit by a mysterious party. I altered the last line a bit. And this chapter is my obligatory hurt/comfort installment.**

**I find it interesting that Andy has found his way into this story. I had nothing against him, but I had previously wanted to keep him out of my works. Yet somehow, watching Wesley Lau's first, non-Andy appearance on the show has made me fonder of him and of Andy, enough so that I have fully welcomed him and here he is.**

**Chapter Seven**

The house was still in darkness by the time Paul pulled into the driveway. He frowned, studying it as well as the surrounding property. There were two cars also in the driveway, one of which was Lieutenant Tragg's. The other, he assumed, was Hamilton Burger's. And even as he parked, another squad car was pulling in behind him. Bewildered and curious, he got out and walked over to it.

"What's going on around here?" he demanded of Sergeant Brice upon seeing him in the driver's seat.

"We're not sure," Brice answered. "Lieutenant Tragg called for backup, so we came."

Lieutenant Anderson exited from the other side of the car. "Why are all the lights out?" he frowned.

"I have no idea!" Paul exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "I just got here now."

Almost as soon as he spoke, the lights suddenly came back on. He and the policemen stared in stunned amazement.

Andy abruptly broke the silence. "We're not learning anything standing out here," he said, brushing past Paul and Sergeant Brice. "Let's go inside."

xxxx

Della looked around in amazement as the room was again illuminated. But instantaneously her feelings turned to shock and disbelief.

"What happened to Mr. Burger?" she demanded. "He's disappeared!"

Tragg's eyes narrowed. "He didn't say he was going out of the room." He walked back to the hall and peered up and down the corridor. "And we would have heard him crossing the floor."

Della followed him to the doorway. "I can't believe he would've left without letting us know," she fretted.

Tragg shook his head. "Either way, he seems to have vanished into thin air. Mr. Burger!" he called, sharply.

The only response he received was the running of concerned footsteps. In a moment Andy appeared, with Paul and Sergeant Brice in tow.

"What's going on?" Andy asked.

"We were continuing our search while waiting for you to arrive," Tragg told him. "The lights went out without warning. When they came back on, we found that Mr. Burger was no longer with us."

"Please, have you seen any sign of him?" Della demanded.

"No," Paul said. "We haven't seen anything at all." He looked into the room. "Couldn't he have got out some other way?"

"This is the only door," Della said. Her stomach was doing flip-flops. So much had happened tonight—far too much.

What she had feared for years had come true. Perry was hurt. She refused to believe it was more than that, but that was plenty. And even though she tried to be resolute, other fears continued to creep into her mind and heart. Would she see him again . . . alive? What if he would instead be found lying somewhere, not moving? What if Tragg would kneel next to him and check for a pulse that was not there? She could so easily see herself standing nearby, praying against the unthinkable pronouncement yet knowing it was coming. And when it did. . . . Then she would run to Perry, crash to her knees next to him, beg for him to wake up, to answer her. . . .

And it would not happen.

Hamilton Burger had been worried about Perry's safety too, just as all of them were. He had brought in a large number of his staff to work on the problem in the middle of the night. He had intended to go out looking for Perry on his own. He would have if Della had not appeared on his doorstep.

And so, at her insistence they had gone together—checking the broken-down house, being pursued by two assassins, and coming here with Lieutenant Tragg. He had not wanted her along, worried for her own well-being. Now he had disappeared without a trace.

"Della? Are you alright?"

She looked up at Paul's concerned voice. The worry extended to his face. Apparently she herself must be showing signs of the strain.

She just shook her head, the helplessness washing over her. "I'm not alright," she confessed. "I've tried to keep myself together, but there's just too much happening. Every time I turn around, this mystery gets worse and worse."

Paul drew his arm around her shoulders. "We'll find Perry," he assured her. "And Burger too—he can't be far."

"But are either of _them_ alright?" Della berated.

Paul fell silent. He could find no answer for that.

He looked to the police for help. Tragg was back in the room, checking for some secret doorway they might have missed. Andy and Sergeant Brice were out in the hall, vainly peering into every room.

"It's because Mr. Burger can't be far that I'm worried about him," Della said. "Why did he leave? Why doesn't he answer? Something must be wrong. Maybe they've got him now too!"

"Or maybe he just wanted to go off by himself to look around for a while," Paul said. "You said that's what he wanted in the first place. He'll probably show up any minute, just fine."

Before Della could answer, Andy came back their way. "He's not down there," he reported. "Especially not in the room next-door."

"And there isn't a room on the other side," Brice frowned. "Just this closet." He opened a door, displaying a small storage area filled with brooms, mops, and pails.

Della stared at it with blank eyes, as though it was somehow the final confirmation that something was drastically amiss. "What _happened?_" she whispered at last. "He's gone, just like with Perry. And there's no clues to either of them."

Tragg came out of the room then. His grim visage darkened all the more as he saw what they were looking at.

"There definitely aren't any other doors in that room," he said. "At least, none that we can see."

Brice registered surprise. "You think there's a hidden door, Lieutenant?"

"I know it sounds like something out of an old cloak-and-dagger film, but right now it's just about the only other possibility," Tragg said. "Things simply aren't adding up."

Paul glanced back to the room. "Well, let's get in there and start checking," he said.

xxxx

Perry was still standing near Bartlett in the security room, watching the disturbed man's every move. Every few minutes Bartlett glanced down at his transmitter. For what seemed an eternity it had been silent and dark.

Now a green light was starting to flash. Perry tensed. What did that mean? Was it what he feared? Was someone . . .

Bartlett's lips curled in a sickening smirk. "The job's done," he said. "Someone's down."

Perry lunged, seizing a handful of Bartlett's shirt. "Who is it?" he demanded.

Bartlett just looked back, calm and collected. "That's the thing, Mr. Mason—I just don't know. It could've been the Lieutenant, your detective friend, the district attorney, or even your precious secretary." His wretched smile widened. "I hope it was her."

Perry hauled Bartlett out of the chair, his hold on the shirt a deathgrip. "If Della—or anyone else—is dead, I'll see you follow Gladys Thorn to Death Row," he snarled.

"But I was here," Bartlett sneered. "I didn't kill whoever it was."

"You killed them just as surely as if you fired a gun!" Perry shot back. He flung Bartlett away from him, letting the younger man crash back into the chair. He landed with such force that the chair flew backwards on its wheels. Undaunted, Perry stepped closer, pointing the gun at him. "_You_ thought up this entire scheme. _You_ hired the assassins who have been going after the people I care about. _You_ directed them to attack!"

Now Bartlett's expression was dark and frozen. "And _you_ stopped defending Gladys after the truth came out," he said. "_You_ lethally injected her. _You _killed her."

"I wasn't going to have any part of helping someone such as her go free," Perry snapped.

"Then you took justice into your own hands, just like you're saying I've done," Bartlett said.

"_Justice?"_ Perry all but roared now. "Gladys Thorn was guilty. She admitted it in court. If you blame me for her death, then focus your feelings on _me._ Don't take them out on innocent people!"

"Your secretary and your detective friend didn't try to change your mind when you dropped the case," Bartlett said. "And the D.A. and Lieutenant Tragg were always against her. So maybe in my mind, each and every one of you is responsible for Gladys' death."

Fire flamed in Perry's eyes. For a long moment he stood there, his hand shaking as he gripped the gun. Then, slowly, he began to lower his arm.

"You don't know how close I came to pulling this trigger just now," he said.

"I wish you had," Bartlett retorted. "Then I could go meet Gladys and you could get arrested for murder in the first degree." His face and voice were still filled with ice. "I'd like to look up from Hell and see you on Death Row, Mr. Mason."

Perry dropped the weapon farther. "Then, in spite of all your talk about justice as though you are in the right, you believe Hell is where you would go after your death."

This time Bartlett did not answer. Perry did not push it.

Instead he looked down at the flashing green light, then up at the monitors. Was there any chance Bartlett was mistaken or lying? What if it was all a trick to try to make him lose control? Or perhaps, even if someone had been harmed, they were still alive. Maybe there had not been any death.

Or maybe he was grasping at straws, clutching desperately at what he wanted to blindly believe.

_Della . . . Paul . . . Hamilton . . . Lieutenant . . . I pray every one of you is alive and safe._

He sank into a chair near the console, the will and the strength to stand leaving him.

xxxx

Sometime later, Tragg, Della, and Paul were still going over the room in search of hidden doors. Andy and Sergeant Brice had gone back downstairs, deciding to check for trapdoors in the ceiling of the room directly beneath. The search was not taking as long as it seemed, but for all concerned it was agonizing and frustrating.

It was Tragg who finally found the spring that triggered the secret panel. The wall swung open, revealing the vintage room beyond. He stood in the doorway, studying the strange surprise. "I've found it," he announced. "It's all decked out as if it were eighty years ago."

Della and Paul hurried over. "Is anyone in there?" Paul asked.

Even as the question left his lips he saw the truth. A body was sprawled on the floor, under the window.

Della cried out in horror. "It's Mr. Burger!" She gripped the edge of the doorframe, suddenly dizzy. Her waking nightmare was being played out with Mr. Burger as the one lying lifeless on the floor. And . . . if he had been killed this quickly, what did that mean for Perry?

Tragg hastened into the room and to the district attorney's side. As he lowered himself to his knees to search for signs of life Paul gripped Della's shoulders, holding her back from following the Lieutenant in. She shook her head, wanting to look away yet finding she was unable to do so.

"We didn't hear anything," she said sorrowfully. "We didn't know where he was or that he was being hurt. . . ."

"There has to be another way into this place!" Paul exclaimed. "Someone couldn't have done this to him and then gone past you and Tragg without you hearing anything."

"He just wanted to find Perry too," Della said, only half-hearing. "He didn't have to come looking himself, but he did. And now if he's . . ."

Paul looked over at Tragg, who was leaning back with an unreadable expression. "Well?" Paul demanded, growing anxious with Della's vocal fears and his own, silent though they were. He didn't want Burger to be dead. And he also worried what that could mean where Perry's life was concerned. "What's the verdict?"

Tragg sighed, pushing back his hat. "He's going to have a terrible headache," he deadpanned. A smile of genuine relief came over his features. "But he's alive."

Della visibly relaxed in Paul's grasp. "What could have happened?" she wondered.

"Perhaps he accidentally interrupted someone," Tragg said. "Or else someone was laying in wait for one of us to fall through that panel all along."

"But if that's true, why didn't they kill him?" Paul watched as Burger's left arm slipped down from where it was across his chest. He groaned weakly as the sound of the voices began to restore him to consciousness.

"Maybe they thought they had," Tragg said. "He did look convincing." He bent over his friend. "Mr. Burger, can you hear me?"

Hamilton's eyes flickered open. For a moment he regarded Tragg in confusion. Then the look was gone, replaced with recognition. "Tragg . . ." He winced. "What happened?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," Tragg said. He rocked back, giving the other man space. "We found you lying in this secret room. At first we weren't sure if you were still with us."

"With you?" Burger repeated. He started to push himself up. At the same moment a sharp pain swept over him. He grimaced, a hand flying up to grip the offending spot.

Della came in now, followed by Paul. "Mr. Burger, we thought you were dead!" she exclaimed flat-out.

Hamilton looked to her in surprise. His eyes widened as the memories rushed back. "I remember," he realized. "I fell through the wall into this place. There was a picture on the table here." He indicated the table above him.

"What kind of picture?" Tragg asked.

"It was the same picture that was in the locket from Perry's apartment," Hamilton said. "Only this one was clear. I took it for evidence, but the guy who knocked me out probably took it."

"Did he sock you as soon as you took it?" Paul queried.

"No," Burger remembered. "Someone else came out and charged me. I struggled with him and pushed him back. Then a second person came up behind me and hit me with something."

Noticing a fallen briefcase nearby, Tragg picked it up. "It looks like someone went through your belongings," he said. "Was the picture in here?"

"Yes," was the reply. "There was an inscription on it. It said . . . something strange." He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back against the leg of the table.

"Don't talk any more for now," Tragg said. "Just rest."

"Maybe you should see a doctor," Della said in concern.

Burger opened his eyes again. "No," he said quickly. "No, I'll be alright." He looked to Tragg. "And that inscription. It said 'A true light never goes out.' It was signed 'Marlene.' She must've written it to a lover; it was addressed 'Darling'."

Tragg frowned. "That is strange," he said. "And you're sure it was the same picture from the locket?"

"I'm positive," Hamilton told him.

Paul shook his head. "This case just keeps getting weirder and weirder," he said. "It was this Marlene who was found dead at the Travis house."

Tragg looked up sharply. "What?"

Della stared. "Are you sure, Paul?"

Paul sighed. "Well, no," he admitted, "since all we had to go on was that grainy locket picture. But it sure looked like it could have been her."

"Did she have any identification?" Tragg asked.

"I don't know that, either," Paul said. "Sergeant Nichols dismissed us before he started in. I guess if she did, you'll be finding out soon."

Tragg nodded. "And if she didn't, the medical examiner's preliminary report should tell us who she was."

"But it won't tell us what her picture was doing in a house that's probably owned by a business corporation," Paul said in irritation.

"Who knows," Mr. Burger grunted. "Maybe it will."

He started to pull himself to his feet. "We need to finish going over this house," he said.

"We'll take care of that," Tragg said firmly, moving to help him gain his balance. "You and Della are getting out of here. _Right now,_" he added, giving Della a stern look.

Della hesitated. She did not want to leave. More than ever, it was obvious that Perry was in danger. But maybe she would only hinder being able to find him. Mr. Burger was right; the two of them largely handled cases from the safety of their offices. They were not used to being out in the field in active danger. And now Mr. Burger was hurt.

She watched as he stumbled, then was steadied by Lieutenant Tragg. At last she nodded. "Alright," she consented, her voice quiet. "We'll leave."

Both Mr. Burger and Tragg regarded her with suspicion, wondering if she meant it. She looked back, meeting Hamilton's gaze.

"Mr. Burger, you're in no condition to drive," she said. "I'll drive you to your house. Or to a doctor, which is probably where you should really go," she added.

"I'm alright, Miss Street," he answered, looking and feeling awkward. "But . . . thank you." He glanced to Tragg. "Be careful," he warned. "Bartlett's probably after you too."

"I imagine he might be," Tragg mused. "But don't you worry about me. Get some rest!"

"I'm going to," Mr. Burger muttered, embarrassed.

"Meanwhile, I'll have the boys back at the station get to work on whether there's any connection between this Marlene and the Travis family, or Marlene and the Altec Corporation," Tragg said. "I have a feeling the results will be very interesting indeed."

"The Travis family has had a lot of bad luck," Mr. Burger said as they headed out of the secret room. "When the boy Ben was murdered five years ago, wasn't there some mention of an unsolved murder in their long-ago past?"

Della's eyes widened. "That's right!" she remembered. "I think it happened nearly eighty years ago, sometime in the 1930s."

"It was the sister of Ben Travis's grandmother," Tragg said. "I'd have to dig into the records to tell you more."

Paul glanced back at the room they were departing. "This place is fixed up like the thirties, as far as I can tell," he said. "And that picture was on the desk. The version I saw in the locket looked pretty old."

Hamilton looked over at him. "Paul, what are you saying?" he queried.

"Oh, I don't know," retorted Paul, annoyed with himself. "Maybe I'm just talking without thinking."

"Or maybe Perry's penchant for wild theories is rubbing off on you," Della said with a smile.

"Are you actually suggesting that maybe Marlene isn't from the present day?" Hamilton exclaimed, incredulous. "That she was instead contemporary with Ben Travis's grandmother?"

"Maybe she is," Paul said. "But if she is, I'd sure like to know who the girl is back at the Travis house."

"As would we all," Tragg frowned.


	8. Altec

**Chapter Eight**

It was daybreak before the police and Paul finished going over the house. Tragg sighed, weary and exasperated, as he and the others gathered outside at their cars.

"Well, there's certainly no one staying in that house," he said, pushing back his hat. "I'd better check in with headquarters." He reached into the car for the radio handset.

"Maybe they've learned something about that Marlene woman," Brice said.

"They were still trying to crack the code on those transmitters when I reported in last," Tragg said in irritation. "Even with the passcodes the assassins gave us, something still isn't right or we'd be able to lock in on that satellite signal. It's almost as though Bartlett knows we have the transmitters and is now deliberately blocking the signal to keep us from finding out his location!"

"It wouldn't surprise me," Andy frowned. "But we've kept that information from getting out. I don't know how he'd be aware we have those things, unless he has a friend in the police department or the D.A.'s office."

Tragg nodded. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of—a Judas in our midst."

When Tragg hung up from the call to the station several minutes later, he looked both bewildered and deep in thought. He turned away from the car, facing his comrades.

"Well, the transmitters' out-going signals are still blocked," he said, annoyed. "But apparently there was a woman named Marlene who was important in the Travis family history. She was the murdered sister of Ben Travis's grandmother."

Brice stared. "Then Drake hit on it," he gasped.

Paul looked just as surprised. "Well, how about that," he said.

Tragg nodded. "And the body is still a Jane Doe," he said. "The preliminary report likely won't be in until later today. I sent the message for the medical examiner to put it together as soon as possible, that several persons' safety could depend on solving this mystery."

"If she really looked like that Marlene woman, what could it mean?" Brice wondered. "Is she a relation no one even knew about? Is it a wild coincidence?"

"I personally would rather believe she was a relation," Tragg said. "Those sorts of wild coincidences rarely happen. And if she's directly descended from Marlene, or perhaps her sister, it wouldn't be unusual at all for her to bear a striking resemblance to them."

"That's true," Andy consented. "Although it wouldn't surprise me if the 'wild coincidence' happened to Perry and his crew." He glanced at Paul, who rolled his eyes.

Tragg gave a darkly amused smirk. "That wouldn't surprise me, either."

He glanced at his watch. "It should be a reasonable enough hour now for someone to be available at the Altec building. Every lead we've got seems to involve them in some way."

"Are you going there now?" Andy queried.

"Yes," Tragg confirmed. "And if we're still unable to get in I think I'll run down to headquarters and see if there's a way to speed up the process of cracking the satellite code." He started to ease himself into the car. "All we need there is to find out where the original signal is coming from and then we'll have another place to search, maybe even the right place."

Andy looked at him in surprise. "Lieutenant Tragg, do you even know enough about these kinds of technological devices to help in any capacity?" he asked.

Tragg leaned towards the window. "No," he said. "But I'll find something to move it along, even if it's just shouting encouragement."

Andy shook his head, admittedly amused but also touched by Tragg's insistence to be involved. "Carry on, sir," he said, stepping away from the car door. "Sergeant Brice and I will come with you to Altec. With any luck, we might be able to wrap up the entire case there."

"Now isn't that a novel idea," Tragg mused.

"Isn't it," Andy agreed.

xxxx

Mr. Burger had been mostly silent on the drive. Della glanced to him in concern every few moments, wanting to make sure he was still awake. The shadow of his hat's brim concealed his eyes, but when she looked to him again, he turned just slightly to look back.

At last he spoke. "I'm not going to pass out. You don't have to worry, Della."

She sighed. "I still say you should go to a doctor."

"The last thing I need is to be poked and prodded like a science experiment for the next couple of hours," Hamilton said flatly. "I just need to get some rest and I'll be fine."

Once again Della gave up the argument. But as the facts of the case turned over in her mind, something disturbing and frightening stood out to her.

"Are you sure you should go back to your house?" she asked in concern. "The men who were chasing us said that there were others. What if someone's waiting for us?" Although Tragg had assigned a squad car to follow them, to make certain they got to their destination safely, Della still did not want to take any unnecessary chances.

"They probably think I'm out of commission for a while," Mr. Burger remarked. "But I've been thinking about that too. I don't think you should go back to your apartment. At least, not alone." He leaned back, gazing wearily out the windshield. "It might be safer for both of us to check into a hotel until this blows over."

Della bit her lip but nodded. If Perry were here, he would very likely tell her the same thing.

"Let's do that," she said. "We'll take out a couple of rooms for a few hours. We won't even go get any of our things first. The police can investigate later, and if it's safe maybe I can pick something up then."

"I'll be feeling better by then," Hamilton told her. "I can do it." Anyway, he had to go into the office later. At the present time, with this headache bringing out his exhaustion, it was out of the question.

"So," he said, changing the subject, "to which hotel are we going? One of the many where Mr. Mason has sent his clients to keep them out of the way?"

The sardonic tone in his voice brought an ironic smile to Della's lips. "Oh, it could be," she said. "I don't keep track of them all."

She shook her head. "This is a strange situation, isn't it? A prominent defense attorney's secretary traveling with his most noted rival."

Mr. Burger chuckled. "It is strange at that."

But the reason for the team-up soon had them both sobered again. When Della parked at the chosen hotel, the memories of the past few hours were pressing hard against her mind. She turned off the engine, quietly leaning back instead of exiting the car.

"Mr. Burger, I honestly did think you were dead." She faced him, the pain clear in her eyes. "When I saw you lying on the floor, I was horrified. So many thoughts went through my mind. I didn't want anything to happen to you; I've never wanted that." She looked down. "And . . . if they would attack you so brutally and so soon . . . what have they done to Perry?" Her voice cracked.

Hamilton had no answer for that. He looked at her with regret and sorrow. At last he laid a hand on her shoulder, still not speaking.

For a moment they sat in silence. Then Della drew a shaking breath.

"I can usually keep myself together," she said. "Even when I was being tried as an accessory in that murder case, I stayed composed."

"I'm sorry about that time," Mr. Burger said sincerely. "But it was different. You were in trouble then. And when you care about people, it's worse for them to be in trouble than it is for it to be you yourself."

"You're right," Della consented, finally looking back up at him. "Thank you. And . . ." She smiled a bit. "I accept your apology. Even though it's unnecessary. Being a prosecutor must be a difficult job."

Mr. Burger nodded. "It is, especially when the defendant is someone I know. I can't disqualify myself every time that happens. And I can't give special favors either."

"Does it happen a lot?" Della wondered.

"No, thankfully. But it happens too much as it is."

Della was silent a moment. She nodded slowly in understanding before moving to get out of the car. ". . . Let's get inside," she said. "I shouldn't have kept you."

"It's alright," Mr. Burger said as he exited on his side.

xxxx

The Altec Corporation's skyscraper still looked largely deserted when the police and Paul pulled up in front. But there were lights on throughout the building, as well as in the lobby, so Paul hoped that was a good sign.

Tragg led the way up to the doors and pulled on the handle. When the door moved, he hauled it open and stepped inside, followed by the others.

"Hello, Miss," he greeted the receptionist as he held out his badge. "I'm Lieutenant Tragg, Homicide."

She stared at him. "What is this?" she demanded, getting up from her chair. "There hasn't been any trouble here."

"Maybe not, but we're investigating a murder that appears to have a connection with Altec," Tragg said.

"Not to mention the abduction of a very prominent citizen of L.A.," Paul put in.

"What would we have to do with that?" the receptionist exclaimed. She looked honestly bewildered and alarmed.

"Is Mr. Van Pelt in?" Tragg asked, ignoring the question.

She frowned. "Not unless he came up secretly through the back way," she said. "I could try his office."

"Please do," Tragg said. "Several lives may depend on it."

More worried than ever, the young woman pressed the number of the extension with shaking fingers. For a moment it rang with no answer. At last she looked up.

"I don't think he's in," she said. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Lieutenant?"

"Yes," Tragg said. "You can see if Mr. Orson and Mr. Clemens are in. Late last night we went around speaking with all of the top-ranking officers of this corporation. All that is, except those two men and Mr. Van Pelt. They weren't home at the time."

"Well, I don't know anything about that," the receptionist quickly said. "I can't imagine why all three of them would be gone." She went back to the phone, tapping out the first number. After another moment of waiting, she perked up.

"Hello, Mr. Clemens? I'm sorry to bother you so early, but the police are here. . . . Yes, the police. . . . No, I'm not sure what they want. Something about a murder case and someone being kidnapped. . . . Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Goodbye."

She hung up. "Mr. Clemens will see you," she reported. "Should I still try Mr. Orson?"

"Is his office near Mr. Clemens'?" Tragg wondered.

"Yes; right next-door," was the reply.

"Then we'll just pay him a visit while we're up there, if he's in," Tragg said. "Thank you for your help, Miss. You've been most cooperative."

She shrugged as she watched him and the others head toward the elevator. "Well, what could I do?" she said aloud, half to the emptying room. "I don't want to be accused of not cooperating with the police."

Paul glanced back. "You'd be surprised how many people don't feel that way," he said.

xxxx

Charlie Clemens was a small, nervous little man—the type who would never be suspected of a crime, but could be hiding a dark nature. When the door opened and the four men entered, he stood and reached across his oak desk to shake their hands.

"Hello," he greeted. "I . . . I have to say I really don't understand why you're here, Officer. . . ."

"Lieutenant, actually," Tragg said, holding out his badge. "Mr. Clemens, last night a young woman was found murdered in the home of Benjamin Travis. While conducting an investigation of a home where you and other officers of the Altec Corporation have been seen, a photograph was found of a woman who appeared to be the spitting image of the murder victim."

Andy took out a photograph. "Mr. Clemens, have you ever seen this woman before?" Catching a glance at it, Paul noted that it was a picture of the locket.

Mr. Clemens took it, his eyes widening in surprise despite the graininess of the locket's photograph. "Why, that's Iola," he gasped.

"Iola?" Tragg repeated.

"Mr. Van Pelt's niece," Mr. Clemens explained. The color drained from his face. "You're saying _she_ was murdered?"

"We won't know for certain until the medical examiner's report is in," Tragg said. "Tell me, does the name _Marlene_ mean anything to you?"

Mr. Clemens gave him a blank look. "It's a lovely name, but I don't know anyone by it."

Tragg nodded. "It was apparently a woman named Marlene whose photograph we found in that house," he said. "And speaking of the house, we're talking about this one." He held up a Polaroid shot he had taken of the house before their departure.

Mr. Clemens' jaw dropped. ". . . I knew it wasn't likely we could keep that place secret," he said.

"Then it is owned by the Altec Corporation," Tragg prompted.

"Y-yes," Mr. Clemens stammered. "But we weren't using it for any ill purpose! . . . At least, I never thought we were. We just went there to hold private company meetings or sometimes to shoot pool or play cards. It was more comfortable there than in a meeting room here."

"I see." Tragg held up a second photograph. "Are you familiar with this room?"

Again Mr. Clemens looked blank. "I've never seen it before in my life," he said. "What is it?"

"It's a secret room, accessible from an upstairs bedroom," Tragg said. "The woman's photograph was found in there."

Mr. Clemens shook his head, sinking back into his chair. "I had no idea," he said. "And Mr. Van Pelt will be devastated if Iola is dead. He doted on her."

"Where is Mr. Van Pelt?" Tragg demanded. "In fact, where were both of you and Mr. Orson last night?"

"We were all in Santa Monica," Mr. Clemens said. "It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. We decided to go last evening after work, just for some fun. One thing led to another and we found ourselves staying most of the night."

"Have all of you returned now?" Tragg asked. "Mr. Van Pelt still isn't in to work."

"He said he'd be in later," Mr. Clemens said. "I think he wanted to rest a while first. Mr. Orson was of the same mind."

"Yet you came in early," Tragg observed. "Weren't you just as exhausted after a night of painting the town red?"

"Actually, I came in because I forgot some important files," Mr. Clemens said, sheepish. "I was planning to go to bed for a while too."

"Alright, Mr. Clemens," Tragg nodded. "There's also a little matter of a couple of satellite transmitting devices that were taken from two assassins early this morning. According to our research, they are prototypes of something Altec has been designing."

Mr. Clemens leaped out of his seat again. "That's not possible!" he exclaimed. "Those prototypes have been sealed in a vault here in the building. There's no way anyone could have got them out. Only Mr. Van Pelt, Mr. Orson, and I have the combination. And none of us would have a reason to take our own prototypes and give them to . . . to _hitmen,_ did you say?"

"That's exactly what I said," Tragg said. "Mr. Clemens, would you be so good as to unlock this vault and show us whether the prototypes are still there?"

"Of . . . of course." Mr. Clemens came out from around the desk, trembling all over.

He led the group out the door and down the hall to a half-open door at the end. Stunned, he pushed it open farther and hurried in. "This door should have been closed!" he exclaimed, running to the side of a long, oval table. At the opposite end of the room he pressed hard on a blank white wall. A panel popped open, revealing a safe.

"Well, that's handy," quipped Paul. "At least it's not the old cliché of being behind a painting."

"Who designed this panel?" Tragg wanted to know.

Mr. Clemens fumbled with the dial. "It was Mr. Orson's idea," he said.

"Then he might be responsible for that secret room in the house, too," Tragg said.

Mr. Clemens shrugged helplessly. "I wouldn't know about that."

He stood and stared in horror once he had the safe open. "They're gone!" he cried. "Every one of them is gone!" He rifled desperately through the papers, scattering them to the floor, but to no avail.

Tragg stepped closer. "One more thing, Mr. Clemens. Have you seen Perry Mason lately?"

Mr. Clemens stiffened. "I'm not a criminal!" he wailed. "I don't need a lawyer!"

"That's not why I'm asking," Tragg said. "Just answer the question, please, Mr. Clemens."

"No," Mr. Clemens said, forlorn now. "I've never met Perry Mason at all. I've only heard about him."

"I hope for your sake that you're telling us the truth," Tragg said. "You see, it's Mr. Mason who has been abducted."

Mr. Clemens whirled to stare at him, the shock genuine in his eyes.

xxxx

It had been a long, sleepless night. By now Perry was certain his eyes were bloodshot. Bartlett's were. But neither of them cared. The device had not gone off any more, so Perry was forced to cling to the hope that no one else had been attacked. He still did not know who had already been assaulted, or if they were dead. And no matter how he tried to force himself not to think about it, his thoughts kept returning to the grim subject.

How could any one of them be gone? And all because they were trying so desperately to find him? He clutched the gun tightly in his hand.

If Bartlett would just fall asleep, Perry could try to overpower him, tie him up, and then attempt to disable the force field barrier himself. Bartlett's friend had quietly slipped out some time ago, and who knew where he was in this place.

Perry turned his attention back to the monitors, as he had done so many times in the past few hours. Where _was_ this? He had thought it was the basement of some large house. Rich homeowners sometimes installed security rooms such as this one. The other rooms depicted on the screens looked like the rooms of a house.

But he had not actually seen more than a corridor or two. And he knew that Bartlett had placed a fake tape in the camera controlling the room in which he had been held prisoner. Who was to say that every one of the monitors wasn't also showing a fraudulent scene?

"I'm sure you're grateful, Mr. Mason."

Perry started. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

Bartlett's lips curled in a smirk. "That I haven't got news of anyone else kicking the bucket."

"I don't know that anyone is dead," Perry answered coldly. "Nor do I know if what I'm seeing on these monitors is what's actually outside this room."

Bartlett turned to look at him, unconcerned. "What, then?" he asked. "Do you think they're all fakes?"

"Possibly," Perry said. "Perhaps it's part of an elaborate scheme to disorient and prevent me from knowing where you're holding me."

"It could be, Mr. Mason," Bartlett said, "but I don't know how you'd prove it."

Perry fell back against the chair. Aside from getting out of here, how _would_ he prove it? Bartlett was keeping a close watch on him; he would not be able to tamper with the console's controls—nor would he want to without knowing what he was doing. Was there any other clue? Anything at all?

Suddenly he had an idea. Looking down at the console, he examined it for any sign of a current owner or a manufacturer. Usually that information was in a corner. He stood, walking down to the left-hand end of the machine.

There it was. He studied the five letters for a moment, his eyes narrowed. Perhaps the truth of his location of captivity had been staring him in the face all this time—a solution so obvious it had been overlooked.

A slow smile spread over his face. If he was right, maybe there was something he could do after all.


	9. Transmitter

**Chapter Nine**

Della could not sleep.

She had tried, she had to admit. When she had entered her hotel room and seen the bed, it had looked so inviting that she had to lie down. She was aching all over from lack of sleep, and had hoped that maybe she could rest and clear her mind enough to come up with something that would help find Perry, but it was not to be. Instead she had lain there wide awake, her mind churning until she gave up.

Now she was pacing the room, occasionally glancing out the window or pausing to stare outside more closely.

Hopefully Mr. Burger was asleep. He needed the rest more than she did.

And where were Paul and the police? It was so tempting to get out her phone and call Paul. But surely if they had found anything important he would have called her. She had been checking her phone. There were no messages.

She wrung her hands, resuming her pace. With little else she could concentrate on doing, she had also been thinking on the long time she and Perry had known each other. She had worked for Perry so many years now. It was strange to even recollect the time before they had ever met.

She smiled a bit. That fateful day when she had responded to the ad in the paper calling for a confidential legal secretary, she had not known what to expect. Then she had walked into the office on the ninth floor of the Brent building and first became acquainted with the lawyer named Perry Mason.

They had gotten along very well right from the beginning, their personalities and their efficiency in work perfectly blending. It had not taken long for them to become close friends.

She could not imagine them ever willingly parting ways. She would be more than happy to serve as Perry's secretary for as long as he continued to work. Anyway, she had thought with a smile more than once in the past, she doubted she could find another job as rewarding for her.

Perry would likely never change his profession, either. She would not want him to, not when she knew how much he enjoyed what he did. But this frightened her to no end. She had tried to get away from thinking of the worst-case scenarios, especially since Mr. Burger was going to be alright, but the fears lingered. Lieutenant Tragg was probably right that whoever had struck Mr. Burger had meant to kill him. And to Della, that meant that Perry really could be lying somewhere dead right now.

She frowned, pushing the thought out of her mind. Perry was resourceful. She had to focus on that. And Trevor Bartlett probably wanted to torment him for a while. Surely he was alive. He _had_ to be alive. And they would find him. For all they knew, maybe Perry had even escaped and was on his way back now.

She sighed, sinking into a chair. She had to pull herself together. If she could just clear her mind and not worry, maybe something would come to her that she had not thought of before.

Or maybe she was just too tired for that.

Leaning back in the chair, she gazed up at the ceiling. It was starting to blur somewhat in her vision. Maybe if she laid down again, this time she would be able to sleep. It was certainly worth trying, at least.

Slowly she got up and walked back to the bed. This time as she lowered herself onto the soft mattress and closed her eyes, her mind had mercifully quieted. Sleep embraced her now.

xxxx

Paul sighed in irritation. Things at Altec were moving far too slowly for his liking. The other members of the board of directors were not in yet. And while Mr. Clemens had promised to locate someone who knew all the intricacies of the satellite transmitters, so far there had not been any success on that level, either.

Paul had been talking with Pete and some of his other operatives over the phone, trying to find anything that would explain the connection between Iola Van Pelt and Barlow Travis, or Iola Van Pelt and the Travis family in general, but everything appeared to be a closed book. Now, while waiting for the engineer or whoever to be located, Paul was doing some research on a computer Mr. Clemens was letting him use. Lieutenant Tragg had returned to the police station and was researching there.

There was nothing to explain why Marlene Travis and Iola Van Pelt looked so eerily alike. The police had questioned the Travis family about that, too, but had only been told that Iola must be a modern-day double.

Paul really wasn't sure he bought that. Yet there was no reason why it could not be true. It could be one of those wild coincidences Tragg was talking about.

He tried to stifle a yawn as he scrolled through the PDF files of an old Los Angeles newspaper. Detective work could be more than tedious sometimes. And there were a ton of other things he would rather be doing than looking up eighty-year-old gossip columns.

A black-and-white shot of a familiar brunette brought him suddenly to attention. Marlene Travis was looking casually to the side while mostly facing the camera. At her side was an unknown man. The caption at the bottom brought a cheer of triumph to Paul's lips. Finally, proof of a connection between the families!

_Friends? Lovers? What sordid secrets do Marlene Travis and Daniel Van Pelt_

_have in common? Judging from Marlene's knowing smile, she's not about to tell._

Paul quickly read the accompanying blurb to the side of the grainy picture. Apparently the two had been spotted dining together at a fancy restaurant. Marlene looked blasé about the reporter snapping their picture, but Daniel Van Pelt looked either annoyed or worried. The blurb went on to make much of the fact that the Travis family was not in the same league with the Van Pelts. They were on different social standings.

"Interesting," Paul mused, clicking the Print button. "Very interesting."

He just hoped that in some way, this information would serve to help them find Perry.

xxxx

At the police station, Lieutenant Tragg's research was also starting to pay off. Tracing Iola Van Pelt's lineage was revealing some facts he had not expected. Her own story was not particularly helpful. Her grandmother's, on the other hand, was slightly curious.

She had always been thought of as the daughter of Daniel Van Pelt's wife Linda. Yet, as one reporter observed, the time did not appear to add up. When she first started to appear in the public eye she seemed older than she should have been at the time, considering when Daniel and Linda were married.

Tragg leaned back, pondering the discrepancy. Of course, there was no proof that anything was wrong. Everyone could simply be mistaken, trying to invent a scandal out of nothing.

He reached for a pencil. This was a long shot, but it was worth a bit of careful analysis. He had also located the articles concerning Marlene Travis and Daniel Van Pelt. And if it was not a coincidence about Iola's striking resemblance, then perhaps there was a way she could be a relation.

After a few moments he smiled to himself, satisfied. If by any stretch of the imagination Marlene could have had a child by Daniel before her death, that child could have been around the same age the reporter in the article was insisting Daniel and Linda's child should have been.

This was an angle that should be looked into. He reached for the phone to arrange a search on marriage licenses. Not finding one, of course, would not be proof that this could not be the case. But it was a logical place to start.

xxxx

Hamilton had no idea how long he had been effectively dead to the world. He had fallen asleep as soon as he had lain down on the bed. Now, waking up staring at the ceiling, he could not quite remember where he was.

It was not his bedroom. And it was not his office, either. Shouldn't he be there? Something was wrong, he remembered that much.

Perry was missing. That was it. And he had been attacked while searching for the other attorney. Currently he was in a hotel room somewhere in Los Angeles.

He rolled over with a groan. According to the digital clock next to the bed, he must have been here for several hours. And when he fumbled and took out his phone, he had a voice message from Sampson.

Still half-asleep, he somehow managed to tap out the right buttons to unlock the voicemail. He brought the phone up to his ear, closing his eyes as he listened.

The contents soon had him wide awake.

"_Mr. Burger, Lieutenant Tragg called and told me what happened. I'm very sorry to hear it. Are you alright?_

"_He also informed me of several new developments in the case. The medical examiner's report is in on the body. Her name was Iola Van Pelt, the niece of Davidson Van Pelt from the Altec Corporation's board of directors. And according to both him and the Travis family, Ms. Van Pelt was often seen with Barlow Travis, who is presently missing. The nature of their relationship is unknown._

"_The Marlene woman whose photograph is in the locket was a member of the Travis family. Her murderer never was caught, as I'm sure you remember._

"_Do contact me as soon as you receive this. By then there may be further information."_

Mr. Burger was sitting up and dialing Sampson's number before the message had finished. After two rings the deputy D.A. picked up. "Hello?"

"Sampson, it's me," Burger greeted, gruffly. "What's going on there?"

Sampson perked up. "Mr. Burger! Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Mr. Burger answered. "I got your message."

"We haven't learned anything more," Sampson answered instantaneously, "but we're in the process of questioning anyone and everyone who may have seen Ms. Van Pelt and Barlow Travis together."

"And you have no idea why this Ms. Van Pelt apparently looked just like a relation of the Travis family?" Hamilton exclaimed in exasperation.

"No, I have not," said Sampson. "I'm personally overseeing the search into the records to find a connection."

"Good," Hamilton shot back. "If we can find that, we might figure out how it ties in with Mr. Mason's disappearance."

"Hopefully so, sir." Sampson hesitated. "Now that it's reached regular hours, we won't be able to devote all of our time to this case."

"I know that!" Hamilton said, impatient. "We'd be neglecting the rest of Los Angeles if we tried. But keep everyone on it that you can."

"Of course."

"And I'll be in later." Hamilton started to ease himself off the bed, passing a hand over his aching eyes as he did.

"Mr. Burger, are you sure?" Sampson exclaimed.

"I'm sure," Hamilton said, leaving no room for argument.

They said their goodbyes and hung up. After pondering a moment, Hamilton dialed Lieutenant Tragg. The phone rang long enough to make him impatient before it was at last picked up.

"Why, Mr. Burger," Tragg greeted. "I was wondering when you might call. Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes, I am." Hamilton leaned forward. There was no point in mentioning the lingering, but not as prominent, headache. "I just talked to Sampson. Have there been any further developments that he doesn't know about?"

"As a matter of fact, there have been," Tragg said. "We've been talking with the board of directors at Altec. They've been more than willing to help. In fact, they've located the man behind the invention of the satellite communicators. He's coming back to headquarters with us to help us unlock their signals and locate the parent transmitter."

Hamilton perked up. "Good," he said in approval. "This could be the best break we've had."

"With any luck, we'll soon know where Perry is," Tragg said. "Of course, he may not even be with the parent transmitter."

"I know," Hamilton frowned. He started to climb off the bed. "I'm going to let Della know what's going on. We'll probably end up coming to the station."

"At least you'll be out of trouble here. I hope," Tragg grunted. "Alright, Mr. Burger. I'll see you soon. There are some other matters I want to discuss with you, but I'd prefer not to talk about them over the telephone."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Now you've got me curious," he said. "Does this concern the case too?"

"It concerns Iola Van Pelt, the murdered girl, as well as her mysterious twin Marlene," Tragg said.

Now Hamilton was more intrigued than ever. As they hung up, he slipped into his shoes and headed for the door. This was the closest they had come to learning Perry's whereabouts. And although he wanted to know how the murder of Iola Van Pelt fit into the case, he was content to let his investigators and the police handle that angle. He had set out to discover where Perry was, and first and foremost that was his concern.

He pulled the door open, nearly walking right into Della as she emerged from her room across the hall. "Excuse me," he apologized.

Della seemed not to hear. "Have you heard?" she demanded. For the first time since this nightmare had begun, her eyes sparkled with hope.

"They might be able to find where Perry is now," Hamilton guessed.

Della nodded. "Paul called to let me know," she said.

Suddenly she stopped and paused, realizing her error. "Mr. Burger, I'm so sorry," she exclaimed. "I didn't even think to ask how you're feeling."

Hamilton smiled in a bit of touched amusement. "I'm fine now," he said. "I'll get my briefcase and hat and we'll go to the police station."

xxxx

Perry had been waiting, considering all angles and plotting his strategy. If his theory was correct, then he knew not only where he was, but also suspected that the story about the force field was either false or only half true. Perhaps Bartlett did have something, only not as unsurpassable as he made it sound.

"You're quiet."

He looked over when Bartlett spoke. Bartlett was sitting with his back to the console, toying with the chambers of his gun.

"I was just wondering about our location," Perry said smoothly.

"You already know I'm not going to tell you," Bartlett said. "We're far enough away that your cellphone won't work. That should be enough for you."

"On the contrary," Perry said. "It isn't enough at all. I believe we're in downtown Los Angeles. It isn't only being in the wilderness that can render a cellphone useless. Being deeply underground can prevent it working as well."

Bartlett did not look surprised in the least. "So you think we're underground?" he said. "Where? You know me, Mr. Mason. I'm not rich. And I don't know anyone rich. Where would I find to take you in downtown L.A.?"

"Not far. You thought it would be a colossal joke to hide me right under everyone's noses." Perry nodded towards the console. "I noticed that this security system was manufactured by the Altec Corporation."

Bartlett snapped the gun back into place. "So what?" he returned. "Are you saying you think we're in their building?"

"That would be too obvious a hiding place," Perry said. "You would never choose Altec. Although I believe you must have some connection with them. The satellite transmitter was also manufactured by them."

"Where, then?" Bartlett countered.

Perry told him. Bartlett's eyes widened. But then, instead of whatever reaction Perry might have thought he would have, he began to laugh.

"Maybe I underestimated you, Mr. Mason," he gasped at last. "After everything I thought I knew and understood about you."

He leaned forward. "You're right," he said. "I went to great lengths to make it look like somewhere else. Even that barred window in the room you woke up in. It's fake. There really was a portable force field, though—just not as strong as what we told you it was. I turned it off.

"But you still don't know everything. If you try to leave this building, you'll make it but I'll bring it crashing down after you're out. That's so much more interesting than a measly force field. Think of all the lives directly in your hands, just as Gladys's was. You'll have to go through the rest of your life remembering how you brought about all of their deaths, including mine. I'll be killing you slowly for years, even though I'll be gone."

Perry stopped cold and stared at him, his blue eyes burning. "It seems I underestimated you as well," he said darkly. "But I should have known better. If you would gamble with the lives of my friends, you would most certainly be capable of gambling with the lives of many other people, even strangers. And I believe that you would put your own life in danger to see me devastated." He stepped closer. "Still, I only have your word that this is true. How do I know it is?"

Bartlett held up the transmitter. "If I dial the right combination, I can activate and arm every bomb that's been placed around the building," he said. "Like this." He started to press the 1 on the number pad.

Perry lunged in an instant, tackling him in the chair. They tipped sideways to the floor, struggling over control of the device. Perry snatched Bartlett's hand, closed in desperation around the deadly black box. He fought to get his own fingers under Bartlett's, while at the same time trying to punch him and ward off punches with his other hand. At last he caught hold of Bartlett's left wrist. Despite the younger man's efforts, Perry pried the device out of his right hand.

"Are those bombs dormant right now?" he demanded. There was no point bringing out his gun. Bartlett would not be intimidated.

"Right now," Bartlett agreed, his voice dark. "But even with you holding the transmitter, no one is safe. When my friend took his leave of us sometime back, he went to get one I had set up for him. If you leave, he'll know it. And he'll set off the bombs just like I would."

"Really?" Perry retorted. "Is he as foolish as you? Does he not care if he dies? Does he not care if he's charged with the mass murders of innocent people?"

Bartlett's eyes narrowed. "Well," he said, "why don't you leave and find out."

Perry struck him, hard enough to render him unconscious. Then, slowly, he got to his feet. His side was hurting again from the strain. Red was seeping through the bandage. But right now that was the last thing on his mind.

"I will," he said quietly, turning to examine the locked door. "But I won't let anyone here die in your demented explosion. Even you, as much as you deserve it."

xxxx

It only took moments for the inventor of the transmitters to unlock the devices the police had in their possession. Immediately they began to beep and flash in unison, sending their signals to the satellite.

"Now the satellite will transfer them to the parent transmitter," he explained to the gathered crowd of police and others. "And then we should know where to go to find it."

Within moments the coordinates had been tracked and were being printed out. Tragg grabbed up the first copy. As he studied it, his eyes widened in shock. "I don't believe this," he breathed.

"What is it?" Mr. Burger asked, trying to see over his shoulder.

Tragg shook his head. "It's one of the most devious tricks Bartlett could have pulled," he said. "Now I'm sure that if we find his parent transmitter, we'll find Perry."

Della, finally getting a clear view of the printout, gasped in shock. "I'm sure of it too," she said. "The parent signal is coming from the Brent building!"

Paul hurried over. "You mean all this time Perry's been somewhere in our office building?" he cried in disbelief.

"Exactly," Tragg nodded. "And with that as the case, I'm sure Bartlett won't make it easy for us to simply waltz in and find him." He waved the paper. "There must be some other conditions to this set-up. And we'd better figure out what they are right away."


	10. Blockade

**Chapter Ten**

Perry turned away from the locked door, frowning to himself. How was he going to open it? It was sealed with an electronic keypad; only the code could break it. Or overriding the code, and he would not have the slightest idea where to begin. Had Bartlett kept whatever password was originally installed? If he had chosen his own instead, it would be easier to think of what it might be.

He glanced to the console. He was unfamiliar with how to operate that, as well. And it would likely prompt him for a password first even if he found how to unlock the door. But it was worth a try. Maybe if Bartlett were already signed in to the account it would not ask further questions.

Several minutes later Perry turned away in frustration. On the middle screen was the flashing password prompt. He had tried several possibilities without success. He did not have time to waste on this! Wasn't there something, anything else he could try?

He glanced down at the transmitting device in his hand. It did not require a code, did it? If he knew how to send a signal, perhaps he could override the password from here.

Or perhaps he could have someone else unlock the door for him.

The first order of business was to tie up Bartlett. He would not stay unconscious for long. And the last thing Perry needed was to fight with him now.

Within moments Bartlett's hands were restrained, courtesy of Perry's tie. He returned his attention to the satellite transmitter. The buttons on top were a small number pad. Was there a way to signal one specific person? If so, did each number on the keypad correspond to a particular party? Bartlett had only hit one key when he had used the device to signal a specific transmitter. By contrast, he had said that the bombs required a combination. Perry frowned in concentration, tapping the device with his fingertips. What would Bartlett's friend's number be?

For a moment his forefinger hovered over the 1. Then, changing his mind at the last moment, he looked to 2. Bartlett was vain. He was not likely to list his friend in the first spot.

But there was another problem. How would he know that pressing the number would signal the friend to come here? What if it would instead mean to do something abominable, such as arm the bombs?

Was there a choice? Phone service did not work down here; he would not be able to send the accomplice a text message on Bartlett's phone, telling him to come. And it was too much to hope that the bearded man would suddenly show up now that Perry needed him.

Maybe if he could figure out how to make the red light flash instead of the green, it would be a signal that something had gone wrong. That might bring Bartlett's friend.

Bartlett had hit the device once to signal someone to attack. Perhaps that had shown up as a green light on that someone's transmitter. Would two taps change that to red?

He was going to have to try.

Praying that he was doing the right thing, Perry pressed the 2 twice.

And waited.

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg climbed into his car, waiting for Sergeant Brice to get in on the passenger side before gunning the engine and pulling out of the parking lot.

Brice was as tense as Tragg felt. "Do you think this is going to work?" he asked.

"I don't know," Tragg said grimly. "We have to assume that Bartlett realizes we'll figure it out eventually and is planning on our arrival. And we also have to assume that the entire building may be under siege."

"Bartlett might also realize we'll try to distract him by splitting up and having some officers come in the back," Brice said.

"Probably," Tragg agreed. "Our best chance is to surround the building from all sides, so we'll have to take the risk."

"And do you really think Mason's secretary and Drake will stay back?" Brice wondered.

"They won't want to do anything that might put Perry in further danger," Tragg said. "If Bartlett wants to use anyone against him, he'll most likely try to harm one or both of them. They're Perry's nearest and dearest friends."

A bullet sailed past the police car. Tragg and Brice looked back in shock. A sole figure was leaning out the window of a vehicle coming up from behind them, a gun gripped in his hand.

"Would you like to rephrase that, Lieutenant?" Brice exclaimed. "Apparently _we're_ targets too!"

Tragg's expression darkened. "Well, we're not going to stand for that," he said. With the road clear ahead, he abruptly swung the car out in a broad U-turn and then turned it sideways, blocking the lane. The gunman was already starting to turn his own car around for the escape. Tragg leaned out his window, delivering a shot squarely into the rear right tire. It blew, sending the vehicle skidding and careening across the street. Another bullet, aimed at the rear left tire, finished it off.

Tragg and Brice were hurrying out of their car in the next moment. The assassin was leaping out of his own, keen on taking flight.

"Stop!" Tragg yelled after him. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

Instead of either stopping or quickening his speed, the hitman whirled and fired. The police swerved away, returning fire. One of their bullets found its mark; the gunman went down.

Tragg stormed over, clutching his weapon. "Why were you shooting at us?" he demanded. He stood over the gasping form, his visage and tone both declaring that he meant business.

"It was . . . just a job," the assassin heaved. The shot had been fatal. He would be dead within minutes.

"Not everyone is willing to risk gunning down officers of the law," Tragg said. "And even less try it on an open highway several blocks from a police station!" He bent down, taking note of the satellite transmitter on the man's belt. "Did you receive a signal to come after us?"

Sullen, the hitman looked away. "I was told to do it," he said. "Barlow Travis called me."

"Then he _is_ involved!" Brice said.

"Where was Travis calling you from?" Tragg asked.

"I don't know." The assassin gripped the asphalt with his hands, stubbornly refusing to grab at the wound. "He . . . he said he'd rapped the D.A. over the head. Thought he was dead at first, then wasn't sure."

"He's not dead," Tragg said with a certain satisfaction. His voice rose. "Do you know that Perry Mason is being held in the Brent building?"

The assassin's eyes widened. "How'd you know?" he mumbled.

Tragg ignored that, but was inwardly triumphant. Now they had confirmation. "What is Bartlett planning for anyone who tries to rescue Mason?" he demanded.

By now the hitman was almost gone. "Bombs," he rasped.

Tragg stared at him. Stunned, Brice came closer. "Did you say _bombs_?" Tragg exclaimed.

"Yeah," was the thready reply. "He's going to set off bombs in the place. But . . . he really wants to do it after Mason escapes. Make Mason feel like he's responsible for killing . . ." He trailed off, suddenly growing silent and lifeless as his head turned to the side. The hired killer would not prey on humanity again.

Tragg looked up, grim. "This is going to change everything," he said. "Get the bomb squad."

Shaken, Brice hastened back to their car.

xxxx

It was only five minutes later when the electronic keypad came to life, beeping and whirring. Perry was immediately at attention. He moved to the side of the door, where he would be ready as soon as it opened.

"What's going on in here, Trevor?" the bearded man called as he began to push open the door. "Is Mason giving you trouble?"

In the next instant he froze as the cold barrel of Perry's gun was held to his head. "Mason's given him trouble," Perry said. He seized the astonished criminal. "And you'll be in trouble if you don't tell me where each bomb is and how to deactivate them all."

Bartlett's friend did not even bother to ask how Perry knew about their existence. "They . . . they're not armed," he said. "But . . . Trevor gave you a time limit. You didn't know about it, but he decided to give you twelve hours to get out. If you're not out by then, the bombs will automatically activate and then detonate in fifteen minutes, killing you as well as everyone else in the building."

"And you were just going to sit back and die with us?" Perry snapped. He pressed the gun harder.

"No!" his prisoner gasped. "I wasn't going to be here. I was going to high-tail it out."

"What if Bartlett wouldn't let you go?" Perry returned. "He doesn't care about anyone else's life. Why should he care about yours?"

"He wouldn't do that to me!" was the angry retort. But a definite hint of doubt had crept into his voice.

"You can't be sure, can you," Perry said. "Now! How do I deactivate the bombs?"

"I . . . I don't know!" the bearded man cried in horrified realization. "Trevor never told me!"

Perry shoved him forward, to where Bartlett had been stirring for the last few minutes. "Make him tell you," he ordered. "Make him tell you if you want to live!"

Bartlett turned, blinking blurry eyes as his friend crashed to his knees beside him. "Barlow?" he mumbled. "What are you doing back here?"

_So,_ Perry thought to himself, _finally he has a name._

Barlow was trembling in newly awakened fear and panic. "Trevor!" he pleaded. "Tell me how to turn the bombs off!"

The words had a remarkable and alarming effect. Bartlett became fully conscious, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "No," he hissed.

Barlow's mouth fell open. "What?" he cried. "No, come on, you've gotta tell me! I don't want to die in here!"

"Then get out," Bartlett retorted. Seeing Perry standing behind him with the gun, his lips curled in a dark sneer. "He won't shoot you, at least not to kill. He wants us to stand trial, remember?"

"But by now it's almost been twelve hours!" Barlow protested.

"Then we can all take a trip to Hell together," Bartlett growled, his face twisted in a grotesque manner.

Perry gripped the gun tighter. It was no use. Bartlett would tell them nothing.

And Barlow was quickly panicking. "No, no, _no!_" he screamed, leaping to his feet. "Mason is right about you. And I'm not sticking around to go down with you!"

He spun around, kicking out at the gun in Perry's hand. Not expecting the abrupt movement, Perry was unable to hold on to the weapon. It sailed into the console, shattering one of the monitors.

Barlow did not even care about going over to get it. He tore past Perry and through the door, leaving it open as he frantically ran for safety.

Perry frowned, watching him go. Then he turned, moving towards the fallen gun amidst the broken glass. His limp had become more pronounced. The blood loss and the exertion were getting to him. And by this point his wound could even be infected. It was unlikely that Bartlett or Barlow had tried to be careful in getting it cleaned.

He picked up the gun, letting the slivers of glass fall to the floor around him. Bartlett, still on the floor with his hands restrained by Perry's tie, watched with a sickening smirk.

"So now that you got the door opened with your tricks, you're going to escape," he said. "Leaving me here to die in the inferno I've created."

Perry turned to face him. Silent and angry, he walked towards the wretch who was bringing about all of this chaos and mayhem. Still holding the gun he bent down, hauling Bartlett up with his other hand.

"No," he said. "I'm going to evacuate the building. And you're coming with me."

xxxx

Della was sick with disbelieving horror as she hung up her phone. Paul glanced at her, then took a better look when he caught sight of her paling complexion. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Della shook her head, slipping the phone back into her purse. "An assassin just went after Tragg and Sergeant Brice," she said. "He said that Bartlett has wired the Brent building with bombs!"

Paul was stunned. _"Bombs?"_ he echoed.

"The police are calling in the bomb squad," Della told him.

"And what are we supposed to do?" Paul frowned. Della had opted to ride with him upon departing the police station, but they had already wondered what they would be allowed to do once reaching the Brent building. Now it was unlikely that they would be doing anything other than standing and waiting outside. Not that Paul wasn't relieved for it to be such a slim chance that Della would be going inside.

"I don't know," Della said, helplessly clutching her purse with both hands. "More than that, Paul, what's Perry going to do?"

Paul heaved a deep sigh. "He'll think of something," he said. "He always does." _And hopefully it'll be enough,_ he added to himself.

Not knowing what else to do, he drove the rest of the way to the Brent building. He frowned as he turned onto the block. Squad cars were roping off all sides that he could see, and likely were cutting off the entire block to traffic. He slowed, pulling up near the cars in his way.

An officer walked over to him. "I'm sorry, sir, you can't park here," he said. "This area is closed to all traffic."

"I'm a detective," Paul said impatiently, fishing out his badge and flashing it at the policeman. "Paul Drake. Perry Mason is being held hostage in that building!"

"I'm sorry," the officer said again. "You still can't get through. It's too dangerous."

Della leaned forward. "We know about the bombs," she said in desperation. "Lieutenant Tragg called to tell us."

"We're just waiting on the bomb squad now, Ma'am," the officer said. "They should be along soon."

"That could be too late!" Della fretted.

Another car pulled up behind theirs. "What's the problem here?" came Mr. Burger's voice as a car door slammed shut.

"We can't get through!" Della exclaimed, hoping to appeal to him.

He bent down, looking into the car. "No one can get through," he said. "I'm sorry, Della; this time I have to put my foot down. You and Paul can't go past this barrier."

Of course he was right. But Della did not want to think rationally—not this time, when Perry was in danger and all she wanted was to find some way she could help him. "What about you?" she said. "Are you going through?"

A flicker of helplessness went through his eyes. "No, I'm not," he said. "I'd only be in the way and cause more harm than good." He rested his hand on the top of the car door. "Bartlett would love to get us in there, I'm sure of it. He probably has more assassins in the building and would see to it that we were killed right in front of Perry."

Paul spoke up. "You know, I don't usually agree with Burger, but this time he's right." He gripped the wheel. "As much as I hate to admit it. I want to get in there too."

Della looked down. At last she weakly nodded. This was going to have to be left in the hands of the police.

And God.

She began another silent, heartfelt prayer.

xxxx

Perry frowned as he and Bartlett reached the stairs leading to the main floor. Bartlett had been strangely cooperative on their way up from the basement levels. It was highly unlikely that it was because of Perry's gun, so he must have something else planned. But what could it be?

"Are those bombs going to go off the moment we step over this threshold?" Perry demanded.

Bartlett sneered. "I told you I wanted you to get out of here," he said. "That's when it's supposed to go up. Of course, if you don't leave in time because you're trying to get everyone out, then you'll die with them."

"And no one was on any of the basement levels," Perry noted. "How did you manage to keep them out?"

"It wasn't me," Bartlett smirked. "It was a girl named Iola Van Pelt. Figure that one out."

"I will," Perry said. "When we're outside."

The reception area of the ground floor was empty when Perry pushed open the heavy door and stepped through with his prisoner. His frown deepened. Where was everyone? Barlow had undoubtedly had plenty of time to get out, but there should at least be a receptionist. Perhaps Barlow had taken her as a hostage. Or less likely, maybe he had developed a prick of conscience and warned her about the bombs.

Without warning, guns clicked from every side. Assassins stepped out, their sniper rifles all pointed directly at Perry as they began to close in. No longer with a choice, Perry froze.

"So this was why you came so quietly," he said.

Bartlett's face split in an ugly smile. "That's right."

xxxx

Della had no idea how long they had been standing at the edge of the barrier, waiting and watching for something to happen. Paul was restless, unable to hold still but trying not to pace. Mr. Burger shifted his briefcase from one hand and back to the other. Della fumbled with her gloves, taking one half-off and then pushing it back on again.

All around them a large group of onlookers had begun to congregate. The police had called repeated instructions for them to stay back, but when that did not fully work several officers began to work crowd control.

Della glanced at them, anxious. She and the others had only been allowed to stay because of their deep personal connection to what was happening beyond the barrier—and because of Mr. Burger's influence. But if the throngs continued to grow, maybe she and Paul would be shuttled away too.

The megaphone brought them all to attention.

"This is Trevor Bartlett!" came the amplified voice from the Brent building.

Della went rigid. "What's he doing?" she exclaimed.

Paul and Hamilton exchanged concerned and uncertain looks.

"I am holding this building captive," Bartlett announced. "My bombs have just activated, so the whole thing will go up in smoke in fifteen minutes. And if the police and their bomb squad dogs don't stay back, I will order my hitmen to fill your precious lawyer Perry Mason with holes. They're surrounding him right now. Tell them, Mason."

Any pigmentation left in Della's face vanished into sheet-white when Perry's voice came over the loudspeaker.

"He's telling the truth. But don't let that stop you!" Perry ordered. "Get in here, now! See that the bombs are found and disabled. Don't worry about me."

Della was no longer thinking. She ran forward at the barrier, her heart in her throat. _"No, Perry!"_ she screamed.

Instantly two pairs of arms grabbed her, holding her back. She struggled against them, but in vain. "Perry!" she cried again. "Don't sacrifice yourself! There has to be another way. There has to . . ." She clutched at someone's arm, her knuckles white.

Paul was so shaken he barely noticed Della's deathgrip on his arm. "Now what?" he asked of an ashen Hamilton Burger.

"I don't know," Hamilton answered. He looked back to the Brent building and lowered his voice. "It's starting to look like no matter what we do, Perry is done for."


	11. Countdown

**Chapter Eleven**

Barlow Travis had successfully made it out of the Brent building, but he had run right into the waiting arms of Lieutenant Tragg and Sergeant Brice. Too shaken at his near-brush with death, he did not even care. As Trevor Bartlett made his horrifying announcement moments later, Barlow was sitting, handcuffed, in the back of the squad car.

Tragg turned to face him, his eyes narrowed in an angry glare. "Well, what do you make of that?" he snapped.

"He'll do it, Lieutenant," Barlow asserted. "I know it. He wouldn't have even stopped at killing me just so he'd get Mr. Mason!"

"Yeah, I'm sure of that," Tragg said. "Do you know where the bombs are in the building? We have fifteen minutes to shut them down, _without_ causing Mr. Mason's death!" His expression darkened further. "And if you know anything that might help us, and you withhold it, I promise you the district attorney will charge you as an accessory to murder. Mass murder, if the bombs detonate!"

Barlow shook his head firmly. "I won't withhold anything!" he said. "But I'm not going to be much help. The bombs are on every floor, attached to the middle of the ceiling in the main corridor. There won't be enough time to turn them all off. And only Trevor knows how to shut them all down at once!"

Tragg looked to Sergeant Brice. "Tell the bomb squad about this," he said quietly.

Brice nodded. "They really have their work cut out for them," he said. "They have to find a way to sneak in without Bartlett knowing, disable all the bombs, and fight off anyone Bartlett might have hired to keep them back." He leaned into the car and grabbed the radio's speaker.

Tragg glowered at the front of the building. From his position Bartlett was visible inside the lobby, as was Perry surrounded by the gun-toting assassins. And even in the absence of a loudly ticking clock, Tragg could hear its countdown in his mind.

He clenched a fist. He and Brice had been going to take their unit in through the front. That was impossible now, of course. And if they moved to go in the back, Bartlett would see and likely make good on his threat against Perry. They were stalled. Their only hope now was to distract Bartlett and try to talk him out of this while the bomb squad attempted their entrance from behind the building.

"What's the purpose behind this, Bartlett?" Tragg asked, raising his voice. "What do you believe you will accomplish?"

"I'll have the satisfaction of knowing Mr. Mason will die helpless, unable to save any of the oblivious people in this building," Bartlett answered.

"So you intend to take him with you into death," Tragg said.

"That wasn't the original plan," Bartlett admitted. "But it'll do for now." He shot a quick look at Perry over his shoulder. "I know it's chewing him up inside that he can't do anything about it."

Perry's face was unreadable. He stood where he was, perfectly still and staring at the scene outside the window. The hitmen were also rigid.

"What about your men, Bartlett?" Tragg said. "Do you believe they will be willing to go down with you?" He gripped his gun. If only they could get the assassins to move away, Perry might have a chance!

Bartlett wavered. Apparently that thought had not even crossed his mind. "They'll do as they're instructed," he said at last.

"Really?" Now it was Perry who had spoke up. "They're contract killers, paid to get rid of people. Somehow I doubt they would be willing to essentially take out contracts on themselves. They wouldn't even have the opportunity to enjoy whatever money you've given them if they stay here to die."

Bartlett whirled. "Shut up!" he snarled. "Anyway, they know they're cornered. If they get out alive they'll be going to prison. The whole lot of them!"

One of the assassins turned to face him, his eyes narrowed. "Some of us might escape," he said. "But all of us are going to live, one way or the other. None of us are stupid enough to wait around here for your bombs to blow us all up."

Bartlett took a step back. "What are you saying?" he gasped. "You can't turn against me. I'm your employer, your boss! Anyway, I was going to let you go right before the explosion."

"How nice. You know, we've got what we need from you," said another. He took his gun away from Perry, pointing it at Bartlett instead. All of the others followed suit.

Della, still behind the barrier, tried desperately to lean forward. "What's happening?" she cried in agony. "I can't see a thing!"

"Wait a minute," Paul said, keeping a firm hand on her shoulder. "Maybe Tragg threw in a monkey wrench with that last comment of his."

Burger nodded. "I'm sure of it," he said. "Bartlett was a fool to think anyone would willingly stand by him to die."

Tragg and the other police were moving closer now, their guns drawn. The assassins held still, having surrounded the still-restrained Bartlett with their weapons. One of them started to squeeze the trigger of his rifle.

Perry stepped forward. "Don't kill him," he implored. "Let the police take him into custody."

The assassins had their own ideas. As the police drew closer, some of them whirled and opened fire. The police scattered, taking cover to fire back. A couple went down.

Della stared in new horror. "Isn't one of them Tragg?" she exclaimed.

Paul kept his hands on her shoulders, still worried that she might run out. "It looks like it," he said in concern.

"He's getting up," Burger observed. "I think it just grazed him." That was a relief. But at this point there was too much going on for him to ever hope to relax.

Tragg stumbled behind a squad car, ignoring the burning in his arm. "Perry, get out of the way!" he yelled over the sound of the gunfire. He ducked as a bullet sailed past, then rose up enough to return fire.

Perry wanted to get out of the way. But he also did not want Bartlett to be killed in the fray. That would be too easy and simple an end for a madman like that. He looked around, finally spotting the wretch diving out of the rain of bullets. Perry ducked behind the receptionist's desk, waiting for it to end.

All the while his mind was whirring. There were still countless innocent people in this building. By now the bomb squad had surely entered via the side and back doors. But what if there was not enough time to disarm every bomb? Each level had to be cleared of people. And were there enough officers to handle the task?

He peered around the desk. The shootout was almost over. Most of the assassins were lying dead or dying. The police were starting to emerge from their places of concealment. Tragg looked to be alright. His right arm was bleeding, but it did not appear serious.

Perry turned, making up his mind. He would try to help evacuate the building. With close to ten minutes now, they would need all possible help.

He hastened towards the back of the room and the stairs. In this crisis, he would not dare to attempt the elevator. It would stifle the amount of time all the more, but it would be safer for everyone.

xxxx

Della stood at attention, watching as the police hauled out the assassins that were capable of walking. Another brought out Trevor Bartlett, who was not wounded at all. His smug behavior and self-satisfied smirk only made Della worry all the more.

"Where's Perry?" she burst out. "He isn't coming outside." Had he been hurt in the fracas?

Hamilton moved to slip through the barrier. "I'll go find out," he offered. It should be safe enough now, at least for the few minutes until the bombs were ready to detonate.

Della was not content to wait. She broke free from Paul and hurried after him.

"Hey!" Paul called. "Wait for me!"

Tragg looked up from snapping handcuffs on one of the assassins when the trio came over. "I had a feeling you wouldn't continue to stay back," he said ruefully.

Hamilton took in the torn sleeve of his coat and the crimson trails down his arm. "You're lucky you weren't seriously hurt," he said.

"Yeah, I know," Tragg nodded. He saw to it that his prisoner got into the back of the nearest squad car. "It would have been so easy for it to be worse." He glanced over at another injured police officer, sprawled on the ground with his partner tending to his wounds.

Della looked at the sight too, in sadness and regret. "Will he be alright?" she asked.

"We're not sure yet," Tragg told her.

Unsettled, Della cast her gaze around in further dismay. "What happened to Perry?" she demanded. "I thought he'd be coming out!"

"I don't know," Tragg had to admit. "When the smoke cleared, we didn't see any sign of him."

Bartlett, being handcuffed by Sergeant Brice, started to laugh. Instantly all concerned eyes turned in his direction. Angry, Hamilton walked up to him.

"What is it you know?" he asked, his voice dark. "Where's Mr. Mason?"

Bartlett smirked at him. "He went off to play hero," he said.

Della's eyes widened. "He's gone to disarm the bombs?" she cried.

Bartlett shrugged. "He was talking about clearing the building before," he said. "If I had to make a guess, I'd say that's what he's off doing now."

Tragg's expression turned grimmer than ever. "Of course," he said. "Perry's gone to help evacuate everyone, in case the bomb squad can't turn off all the bombs in time."

Brice glowered at their captive. "You know how to turn them all off at once, with this," he said, holding up the transmitter. "Only you won't tell us how to do it, will you?"

"No," Bartlett answered.

"You make me sick!" Paul snarled. "And to think you didn't even get hurt in that shootout."

"We can't just leave Perry in there!" Della exclaimed. "How much time is left?"

Tragg glanced at his watch. "Seven minutes," he reported. "I'll call the bomb squad unit and find out if they've seen him." He hurried to his radio.

"There's no way they can disarm all the bombs in time," Bartlett said, not even trying to hide the glee in his voice.

Paul spun around to give him a deathglare. "You'd better shut up if you don't want a punch in the mouth," he threatened.

"Paul . . ." Hamilton shook his head. "He's not worth it."

Paul's shoulders slumped. "I know," he grumbled, "but it would make me feel good to know he wouldn't be talking for a few minutes, anyway."

Della wrung her hands, restless and agonized. "How can we just stand out here when we know Perry is somewhere in there?" she said. Of course, logically she knew they would only make it worse by going inside. They probably would not find Perry and then the police would have to come looking for them, too.

But logic sounded so illogical and flat and heartless when they knew Perry was inside a building that was scheduled to explode in five minutes.

Tragg hung up the radio and straightened. His somber expression said everything Della could not bear to acknowledge.

"They haven't seen Perry," he said. "And there's still three bombs to deactivate. The unit has split up, but with four minutes there may not be enough time."

Della could not hold back the anguished wail. Paul drew her close, sickened by the news. "Don't worry, Beautiful," he said, trying to force a lighter tone into his voice. "This is Perry we're talking about. He's not going to be beat here, now. He'll come out any minute, probably with a bunch of people he found."

Hamilton watched them, his own insides twisting. He had never imagined they would be facing a situation like this. Waiting and watching, knowing there was such a limited amount of time and that Perry could be about to perish, was far worse than looking for him around town and worrying that he might already be dead.

He turned back to Tragg, uneasy and uncomfortable. "There's no chance of sending anyone in there to look for him, is there?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Tragg shook his head. "Not a chance. The police officers already inside evacuating the people are going to look for him along with others. And that's all that can be done."

"No," Della said, looking up in resolution. "There is something else."

Paul stiffened. "Della, you can't go in there!" he burst out.

"If you try it, we'll have to hold you back," Hamilton added.

She managed a slight smile. "That's not what I'm thinking," she said. "I'm going to pray." She bowed her head.

The men exchanged brief, surprised looks at her answer. Then, one by one, they followed suit.

xxxx

The remaining minutes ticked by, unbearably slow and yet far too quick all at once. Tragg looked at his watch every few seconds. The others were keeping track of the time as well. They could not stand to look, but they had to. As horrible as it was, they had to know how much was left.

"One minute," Sergeant Brice said grimly from his position at the squad car.

They waited, tensely watching the front doors. Suddenly Della perked up. "Look!" she exclaimed, pointing ahead. "They're coming out. Perry's with them; I can see him!" She ran forward as the glass doors opened. _"Perry!"_

Perry, escorting a group of frightened people, looked to her. He smiled, letting the people scatter once they were outside. He kept on a straight path, heading towards Della.

By now the others were hurrying over as well, but Della reached him first. She gazed up at him, her heart swelling with joy. "Perry," she repeated. "Oh Perry, you're safe! Thank God you're safe!" After all that had happened, this seemed too wonderful to be true—the ending she had hoped and longed and prayed for, yet had not thought they would get.

"Of course I'm safe," Perry said, still with the understanding smile. There were other emotions there too. He was relieved, for his safety as well as hers. He was glad it was finally over. But most of all, he was overjoyed to see her and the others all safe and sound. Bartlett had either lied or had not known that they were still alive and well.

"I was so scared," Della confessed, her voice cracking. "I was afraid we wouldn't find you in time. And then when I heard about the bombs . . ." She trailed off, drawing her arms around him in a firm embrace. It was not a usual thing for her to do, but this occasion called for it. Her emotions were spilling out, her anguish and fear at last being transformed into overwhelming happiness and relief.

Perry returned the gesture, slowly at first but then drawing her close. "You shouldn't have come here," he said quietly. "The building could have exploded."

"You shouldn't have gone inside," Della returned. "You could have been in there when it did!"

Paul looked to it. "Hey, it's not going up," he observed. "It must be past the time now. They did it!"

The police realized the same thing. Some of them let out a joyous cheer.

Della broke into a smile. "I'm so glad," she said.

That was when the sight of red flashed in her vision. "Perry, you're hurt!" she gasped, staring at the blood from the wound in his side.

"It's nothing serious," Perry said, hoping he was right. "I'll have it taken care of and be as good as new."

Paul reached them now. "Do you know what you've put us through the last twelve hours?" he exclaimed.

Perry looked back. "No, but I expect to hear all about it," he said.

"Oh, don't worry, you're going to," Paul said.

Hamilton approached him next. "It's good to have you back, Perry," he said. "I was starting to think that I was going to have to find someone else to clash with in court."

Perry smiled. "I have to admit there were some times when I wondered the same thing," he said.

Tragg gave him a stern look. "You always feel the need to go above and beyond what's necessary, Counselor," he said. "Imagine, worrying these poor people as you did." He indicated Della and Paul.

"You weren't worried, Lieutenant?" Perry returned, not missing a beat.

"Well, of course I was worried!" Tragg retorted. "We've all been worrying out of our minds."

He looked to Bartlett. The younger man's eyes were fiery enough to cut through metal. "And as for you, you're going to be charged with enough crimes that it will take half the day to read them," Tragg snapped. "I'm sure Mr. Burger will take great pleasure in prosecuting this case."

"Yes, I will," said Hamilton, glaring at Bartlett.

Tragg leaned on the squad car, peering down at Barlow Travis. "And you'll be facing charges as well, Mr. Travis," he said, "as an accessory to kidnapping. Not to mention the attempted murder of the district attorney."

Perry stiffened. "Attempted murder?" he echoed. "Hamilton, what happened?"

Hamilton looked more embarrassed than anything else. "It's nothing, Perry," he said. "I'll tell you about it later."

"And while we're at it," Tragg continued, taking out a slip of paper from his inside coat pocket, "we would like to question you about the murder of Iola Van Pelt. She was found dead in your house last night."

Barlow looked down at the floor of the car. "Don't bother about that," he mumbled. "I feel awful about it. I had to get some information from her about the transmitters, and the code to the safe at the Altec building, and that kind of thing. She didn't know what it was for, but she was willing to go along with me. She trusted me, especially because of . . . well, nevermind. Then Trevor called and she heard what he was saying and she knew. She wouldn't go along with anything then. She threatened to call the police."

He dug his fingers into his hair as he leaned forward. "We had a fight. I didn't mean for it to happen, but then . . . then she was lying there, not moving." He looked up with stricken eyes. "She was dead. Yeah, I killed her. I didn't mean to, but I killed her!"


	12. Epilogue

**Notes: Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, and/or offered plot help! I have thoroughly enjoyed this venture. I have another mystery in mind, a spooky one for Halloween that will feature Mignon Germaine from **_**The Fatal Fetish**_** (probably my most favorite episode). I hope you will follow me to that venture, as well as to continue dropping in at my blog, Parkavenuebeat, at Blogger.**

**Epilogue**

The next hours were a whirlwind of activity. While the police and Hamilton worked through the confusing mess left by Bartlett's wickedness, Perry was taken to the hospital to have his wound examined and properly treated. He was discharged an hour later with the admonition to rest at home. Paul drove him back, with Della in tow.

"I've gotta say, Perry, you're lucky on a lot of counts," Paul said, shaking his head. "That wound could have gotten infected, with all the beating it took." As it was, it had torn a bit, requiring stitches. But that was preferable to the alternative.

"I know," Perry frowned. "I suppose I have to be grateful that it was bandaged at least, no matter how sloppy the job."

"I guess," Paul said.

"Oh no!" Della gasped without warning.

Both men blinked in surprise. "What is it, Della?" Perry asked.

"I forgot," Della berated. "Perry, I'm afraid your apartment's been left in a terrible mess."

Perry leaned back. "That's alright," he said. "I'll worry about it later."

"You won't worry about it at all," Della said firmly. "You'll go to bed, like the doctor ordered. I'll take care of everything."

"Now wait just a minute," Perry interjected. "You need to rest too. I can see how exhausted you are. Both of you," he added, glancing to Paul.

"I slept for a while in the hotel room," Della said. "I won't hear of any more arguments about it."

Knowing it was useless to protest, Perry finally just smiled his consent. "Alright. But at least promise you'll take a break when you do get tired."

Della smiled. "Check."

xxxx

The apartment was in quite a mess, as Della had feared. Paul pulled down the yellow Crime Scene tape across the doorway, allowing Perry to reach and unlock the door.

Della cringed at the sight of the overturned furniture and the scattered glasses on the coffee table. Worst of all, there was still some blood on the floor.

Perry surveyed the room with a frown. "They did quite a number on my living room," he said.

Della shook her head, hanging her coat on the rack. "It was horrible when we came and found this," she said quietly. Seeing the blood especially reawakened her alarmed and sickened feelings.

Sensing that now would be a good time to give them some time alone, Paul headed for the bathroom. "I'll just . . . get some stuff to start cleaning this up," he volunteered.

Perry glanced his way. "Thank you, Paul," he said.

Once Paul slipped out of the room Perry turned his attention to Della. "I'm sorry you were put through this," he said. The genuine regret was clear in his eyes and voice.

Della looked up at him. "Lieutenant Tragg came to my apartment late last night," she said. "He . . . he told me about your neighbor finding your door open and the room in such a mess. Then he brought me out here and I saw . . ." She turned away, slowly walking past him. She stared at the blood for a moment, then spun back around to face him. "I saw this on the floor and I was so afraid of what had happened to you!"

She shook her head. "This is what I've been fearing for so long now." She lowered her voice. "It was bad enough when you were threatened on the phone those weeks back. I was so thankful that they hadn't actually wanted to hurt you that time. And now this . . . !"

Perry stepped closer to her. "Della . . ." He placed his hands on her shoulders. She looked up again, her eyes glistening. "I was afraid too. Bartlett kept telling me that he was sending his hitmen after everyone—you, Paul, Hamilton, Tragg. . . . Then his device blinked green and he told me in no uncertain terms that someone had been attacked. He hoped it had been you." He drew a deep breath. "I was holding a gun on him that I had taken from Barlow Travis. I came so close to pulling the trigger. . . ."

Della stiffened, stunned. That was not at all what she had thought she would hear. Perry had almost shot Bartlett in his anger and hatred? Bartlett had managed to drag him to that level? Very few people could have enraged Perry to that extent. Bartlett was a despicable man.

"I'm glad you didn't," she said.

"So am I," Perry admitted. "But at the time I thought there was nothing I could want more than to squeeze the trigger and stop his sadistic, unfeeling taunts. Even if I had, it wouldn't have stopped his men."

"And then you would have gone to prison." Della shuddered at the thought.

"Bartlett taunted me with that, too," Perry frowned. "He is a disturbed man. I wonder whether he's even competent to stand trial."

"I hope he is." A bit of anger crept into Della's voice now. "I hate to think of him getting off easy because he's declared insane. Even though I can't think that someone like that could have his right mind."

Perry sighed. "Well, we'll know soon enough." He glanced around. "Isn't Paul taking a long time?"

As if on cue, Paul came back into the room with an armload of cleaning supplies. "Right here, kids," he said. "It took me a while to find everything."

Della smiled. "Oh really."

"Yes, really." Paul set everything down on the floor. "You just go to bed now, Perry. We'll have this place fixed up by the time you're awake."

"Alright." Perry headed for the bedroom. "Thank you, Paul, Della."

Della watched him go, then looked back to Paul getting started on the floor. "I'm going to take care of these glasses," she said. "I don't know about you, but I don't relish drinking out of them after someone like Bartlett touched them."

"You're going to wash them all?" Paul blinked.

Della nodded. "It won't take long," she said as she gathered them up. "Anyway, they were all dusted for fingerprints, too."

"That's true," Paul mused. "I wouldn't want to drink that stuff."

xxxx

True to their promise, Della and Paul had the apartment in order within a couple of hours. The only thing they had not taken care of was the wall where the stray bullet had entered. But Paul had determined to see about that once Perry was awake and would not be bothered by the noise.

After Paul had left to get some well-earned rest of his own, Della sank onto the couch. She gazed around the room, thoughtful and at peace.

The horror was over. Perry was safe here, where he belonged. Bartlett was in jail, where _he_ belonged. Hamilton had called Della not long ago to tell her that everyone who had assisted in Bartlett's plot was now either in jail, in the hospital under police watch, or at the morgue. He had also asked about Perry's condition.

"_He's doing just fine," _Della had told him. _"He's resting now, finally. I'm sure he'd like to see you later on."_

Hamilton had said that he and Tragg might stop by in the evening to check on Perry and bring him up-to-date on the case. Della had hung up with a smile.

Now she slipped out of her shoes, easing herself down on the soft couch. At last she could rest.

It was some time later when Perry wandered out of his bedroom, having just awakened from a much-needed sleep. The living room looked great, he noted as he took it in. Della and Paul had been working hard.

At the sight of Della asleep on the couch he paused, watching her for a moment. She looked so tired.

He disappeared for a moment into the bedroom. When he returned, he was holding a spare blanket. He draped it over Della gently, quietly, taking care not to wake her. Then, silently, he returned to the bedroom.

xxxx

"I have to say, this has been one of the most heart-stopping days I've had in all my years on the police force."

Hamilton glanced across the restaurant's table at Lieutenant Tragg. "You're not kidding," he said. "We've rarely had to deal with someone as out of touch with reality as Trevor Bartlett."

"Although Donald Rite was up there with the nutcases as well," Tragg mused.

"Don't remind me," Hamilton said dryly. He sighed. "Bartlett is going to be evaluated by at least three police psychiatrists in the next couple of weeks."

"You'd think they'd find him unfit to stand trial," Tragg remarked. "But I honestly can't say I believe that's what will happen. After all this time I've learned to expect anything and everything."

Hamilton nodded. "Same here."

He glanced at his watch. "I wonder if Perry's up yet," he said. "He'd want to know the latest."

"Well, you did mention dropping by tonight," Tragg said. "Why don't you call over there and find out if it's alright?"

Hamilton was already getting out his phone. "I'll do that," he said. "Excuse me a minute." He stood up, walking away from the table.

Perry answered after the first ring. "Hello?"

Hamilton blinked in surprise. He had not expected Perry to be the one to answer the telephone. "Hello, Perry," he greeted. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I've been awake for a while now," Perry returned. "How are you, Hamilton?"

"I'm fine. Look, Perry . . . Tragg and I were wondering if you'd feel up to having us come over—just for a few minutes—to talk about what happened with the case after you left."

"I'd like that very much," Perry said.

"Good," Hamilton said. "We'll be over soon, then." But he hesitated, not ending the conversation.

Perry waited patiently a moment. "Is there something else you wanted, Hamilton?" he queried at last.

Awkward, Hamilton started to attention. "Oh. Sorry, Perry. I was . . . well, I was just thinking that we didn't have much time to talk before. I wanted to tell you that I'm glad you're alright."

Surprised at first, Perry quickly recovered. "Why, thank you, Hamilton. I know you and the others were working hard to find me. I'm sure I wouldn't have been discovered if it hadn't been for your collective efforts."

"I'm just grateful things turned out as well as they did," Hamilton said. "Tragg was right; we were worried out of our minds."

"You were excellent at keeping hold of your minds, under the circumstances," Perry said.

"We did our best." Hamilton glanced over his shoulder at Tragg, who was idly looking at the menu again.

"I hope you're alright," Perry said now. "Della told me what happened to you. It could have been serious."

"It isn't," Hamilton was quick to interject. "It's just a small bump. The headaches are gone now." As soon as the words were out of his mouth he winced. He had not meant to say that!

"I should hope so," Perry said. His concerned frown was obvious, even over the phone.

"Well, we'll see you in a few minutes," Hamilton said.

"Fine. Della and Paul and I will be waiting," Perry smiled.

Hamilton hung up and went back to the table. Curious, Tragg looked to him. "Well?"

"It's a good time to go over," Hamilton reported.

Tragg nodded. "Then we'll go as soon as we finish," he said. "By the way, what were you and Perry discussing over there? It must have been more than just appointment times."

"Perry just wanted to know how I'm doing," Hamilton hurriedly put in.

"I see," Tragg said. "That's thoughtful." From his tone and smile, he knew there was more to it. But he would not pry.

Hamilton nodded, returning his attention to the remainder of his dinner.

xxxx

"I still don't get it."

Perry, resting comfortably on his living room couch in a robe and slippers, looked up as Paul spoke. "What don't you get, Paul?" he asked, reaching for a glass on the end table. As promised, Hamilton and Tragg had stopped in for a while. There were still loose ends to tie up, so they had gathered in the living room to relax and talk.

"What was going on between Iola Van Pelt and Barlow Travis," Paul said. "Why would she trust him? In fact, why didn't he want to say why she trusted him?"

"It would've taken too long," Hamilton said.

Paul shot him an incredulous look. "Too long? Couldn't he just say if they were lovers or something?"

"But they weren't 'lovers or something'," Perry said. "It was much more complicated than that. You yourself helped put some of the pieces together, Paul."

Paul sighed. "I know. And even at that, I'm still confused."

"Marlene Travis was secretly married to Daniel Van Pelt shortly before her death," Tragg said. "They had a child, a girl. When Marlene was murdered, Daniel took the child with him. He kept her hidden until after he married Linda. Then they agreed to pass the girl off as theirs. Other than a few suspicious reporters, it worked."

"That child was the grandmother of Iola Van Pelt," Della said. "Iola looked like Marlene because Marlene was her great-grandmother."

"Meanwhile, Marlene's sister married a man and they settled down," Perry said. "They divorced, and she went back to using her maiden name. But by that time she had a child, a boy."

"And he carried on the Travis name," Hamilton put in. "He was the father of the Travis brothers Benjamin and Barlow."

Paul shook his head. "I don't know how genealogists do it," he said. "I can barely keep it all straight."

"It gets even more complicated," Perry said. "Barlow knew about the family secret and the connection with the Van Pelts. He always carried a locket that his grandmother had given him, a locket with a picture of his grandmother's sister."

"Marlene," Paul said. "But wait a minute! The only print they got off that locket was that hitman's, Martin Bradshaw's!"

"That puzzled us too," Tragg said. "But Barlow explained it. According to his statement, he lost the locket several months ago. It was returned to him by Bradshaw shortly before Bradshaw's death. They did know each other; they had been friends before Bradshaw became a career killer. Then, when Barlow and Bartlett kidnapped Perry, Barlow deliberately left the locket as a red herring, knowing that Bradshaw's fingerprints were on it."

"And that sent us on a wild-goose chase for several hours," Hamilton said in irritation. "He wanted us to think Bradshaw had some posthumous connection to the case."

"Yes," Perry nodded. "Anyway, one day Barlow ran into Iola Van Pelt and he couldn't believe it. She was the spitting image of the woman in his locket. He started talking to her and he realized they were related. When he was sure she would believe him, he told her of their families' history.

"There was never anything romantic between them. They were good friends who felt they had a connection to each other through their families."

"And then Trevor Bartlett went off the deep end and wanted Barlow to help him with his scheme," Hamilton put in. "He knew that Barlow's friendship with Iola Van Pelt would come in handy, provided he could trick Iola into helping them get hold of the technology and the money they needed."

"Unfortunately for Iola, she fell for it completely," Tragg said. "From what Barlow's told us, he told her that his friend needed a quiet place to perfect a new invention of his. He wanted complete solitude, but needed a way to contact people occasionally. The satellite transmitters would be ideal. So would the basement of the Brent building. Iola remembered that location because Altec had installed a security system there."

"Only she didn't know Bartlett wanted the security room," Hamilton said. "She thought he wanted some empty room in the back."

"Of course, he wanted all of it," Perry said. "And she arranged for everyone working in the basement levels to take a couple of days off. Barlow told her that was all his friend would need."

"What a set-up," Paul said in disgust.

"What about the room in that house?" Della wondered. "The one where we found Mr. Burger?"

"That was Daniel Van Pelt's doing," Perry said. "He was still alive, albeit an old man, when the Altec Corporation bought that house. He wanted a special room devoted to his wife. And so he set up the secret room to resemble the 1930s, when they were married. After his death, others in the family kept up the room. He had finally told his secret to them and only them. He didn't want it to get out elsewhere because he didn't want a lot of scandal and publicity in his old age."

"And Iola told Barlow about the room," Paul deduced.

"That's right," Hamilton said. "When I stumbled in there by accident, Barlow was there with one of Bartlett's lackeys. They'd been sent after us by Bartlett."

Perry nodded. "They were worried that the puzzle pieces would start adding up if you took that picture of Marlene. So the unknown man jumped out at you."

"And once I was distracted with the fight, Barlow hit me from behind," Hamilton said, annoyed.

"I still don't understand about the inscription on the picture," Della said. "'A true light never goes out.' Was it some kind of code?"

"No, Della. Not this time," Perry said. "Davidson Van Pelt explained it. As Daniel told it to him, Marlene was referring to the true light of their love. That photograph was one of the last things she gave him before her death."

"And that case is still unsolved," Paul said.

"Perhaps you should take a crack at it sometime, Perry," Tragg said.

Perry smiled. "Perhaps sometime I will," he said. "Strangely enough, that inscription on the picture still holds true today. It was their love that helped so many of these pieces come together."

"I guess that's true," Paul said. "And then there's also the unsolved murder of Benjamin Travis. That didn't have anything to do with this, did it?"

"Oh, it's not unsolved anymore," Tragg said. "Bartlett finally admitted that Gladys Thorn killed him and left that _Fin_ message with the glasses. He said something about Benjamin having learned that she was a manipulative and dangerous person, and before he could warn the person she was currently using, she killed him."

"And just who was she currently using?" Perry asked.

"Barlow Travis," Tragg said.

Paul shook his head. "Talk about tangled webs and what goes around comes around."

Della walked over near the couch. "Well, I say what comes around now is that Perry needs to rest," she said. "He's had a long day."

"Oh, I'm alright now, Della," Perry said. "I'd say all of you need the rest. You barely had any sleep because you were looking for me."

"It has been a long day," Tragg mused. "And tomorrow we'll have to sort through more of the puzzle pieces."

"My office has already started proceedings against Trevor Bartlett and Barlow Travis," Hamilton said. He looked to Perry. "Are you going to feel up to testifying when their cases go to trial, Perry?"

"Yes," Perry nodded. "I wouldn't miss it. You know, it's strange."

"What is?" Paul wondered.

Perry's smile turned a bit mischievous. "I believe it will be the first time I've ever willingly testified for the prosecution!"


End file.
